


For An Albatross

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Confusion, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Pete's in denial, Ryden, brendon is clueless, isn't that great, more tags & characters to be added, our boys are in bands, ryan is a drama queen, there are two fictional bands??, u really just wanna smack ryan across the face for most things he does tbh, whole lotta angst, yeah im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:03:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan never was the best at human interaction, especially if the human he's interacting with is extremely hot. Or fucking his flatmate. Or both. Brendon was definitely both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Coffee

Brendon was woken up by the bright sunlight streaming directly from the opened window, and squinted. He sat up, scratching the back of his head. Last night had been great, but he didn’t think it would make for an actual relationship. Pete wasn’t really the kind of guy you could have a sleepover with - unless the sleepover involved a lot of sex - and Brendon was okay with that. Standing up, he tried to look for his shirt but quickly gave up when he realised that most of the floor was, in fact, covered in clothes. Making his way to Pete’s closet, he opened it and found, regretfully, that most of Pete’s shirts were either too big or dirty. Sighing, he managed to walk to the door without tripping on jeans or other unidentified pieces of clothing. From what he saw, he had two choices: either ask Pete’s roommate for a t-shirt -Brendon believed they were about the same size, though the other boy was slightly slimmer- or going to class shirtless, which, even though he didn’t mind, was probably not the best idea as his teacher was a sixty-five year old man with an uncomfortably long beard. Casually walking into the living room, he was welcomed by the sweet scent of coffee coming from the kitchen. Following the aroma, he saw Pete’s roommate making himself a bowl of cereal. He had his back turned to Brendon, hair messy and a wrinkled burgundy t-shirt hanging on his frame.

“Hey,” Brendon said, opening a random cupboard to see if, by some miracle, it was the mug cupboard. It wasn’t. The other boy turned around, a bowl in his left hand and a steaming mug in his right.

“Hm,” he said, nodding, and, setting his mug down for a second, pointed to another cupboard without looking at Brendon. Brendon opened it and took a mug with cat ears out. Apparently, Pete liked cats. “Cream’s in the fridge,” the other boy muttered as he made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room. Getting some coffee, he swung open the fridge door, quickly spotted the cream and poured a little in his mug. While doing so, he tried to remember Pete’s roommate’s name. It was something like Brian, or Ryan, he didn’t really know: the only time he had actually talked to him was when Brendon had been waiting outside the door of the flat Pete and the other boy shared, and Brian -he was pretty sure the guy was called Brian- had let him in with an eye roll that he hadn’t tried to hide. Looking back at it now, Brendon thought that the guy had been pretty rude. I mean, okay, Brendon wasn’t exactly the nicest with people he didn’t know, but come on, he hadn’t killed Brian’s family or anything.  
He walked back into the living room and saw the roommate sat at the table, eating his cereal. Brendon thought about sitting at the table as well, but quickly decided against it: Brian seemed grumpy and an argument was the last thing Brendon wanted to have right now. He sat down on the sofa, his back to Grumpy Roommate. Sipping his coffee, he enjoyed the rays of sun that were warming his bare legs. Setting his mug down on the small table in front of the sofa, he stretched and yawned loudly, partly because he needed it, partly to annoy that other dude. His class started at 10am, which meant he roughly still had about twenty minutes to take a shower, beg Grumpy Roommate Dude for a tee-shirt, and drive to school.

Finishing up his coffee, he went to the kitchen and put the mug down into the sink. Pete didn’t really care how messy the flat was, but it was a habit for Brendon, and he had a feeling the Brian dude wouldn’t like an empty coffee mug on his living room table. Brendon was trying to get on the other boy’s good side, to at least be able to borrow a shirt. Briskly crossing the living room once again, he glanced at Roommate who was studiously looking at his spoon full of cereal. Walking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him, he stripped and stepped into the shower.


	2. Old Chevy

The sole fact that Pete’s “friend” - although Pete said that it was all they were, Ryan was pretty sure the moaning and curses from the night before weren’t products of a table game - had walked around nearly naked around their studio made Ryan very uncomfortable; even more so when Brendon knocked on his bedroom door to ask for a t-shirt, wearing only boxers. He had spent his whole breakfast trying to calm his nerves down, even when Brendon had left the room. There was absolutely no denying how attractive he was, toned upper body and strong legs. Ryan had tried not to think too much when he heard the shower turning on. Before that, he was sitting down on the sofa, and all Ryan could see was his messy hair and bare shoulders. Ryan tried very hard to focus on the weirdly-shaped cereal flake instead of what was happening in his pants; he still couldn’t help but glance at Brendon, though. He told himself that it was to check whether the dark haired boy was spilling any coffee on the couch, but that was pretty much bullshit: there was no way Ryan could see the front of the couch, much less whether some of the hot drink was staining it. As to the t-shirt he lended to Brendon, it was one of his favourites, but it looked terribly worn out. He didn’t say a word about that, though, just slipped it on and muttered a low “thanks”. 

As Ryan was getting ready to leave for class, there was once again a knock on his door. Sighing, he slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and went to open it. Brendon was behind it. Of course. 

 

“I have no way of getting to school - I mean, I do but if I took the bus I’d be late and-“, he started fast as if he hated to ask, scratching the back of his head. Ryan cut him off, and was surprised at how weary and annoyed he sounded. 

 

“Yeah, sure, I’m driving, you can come with.” At that, Brendon smiled a bit and thanked him once again. Shrugging, Ryan walked out of his bedroom, past the other boy, and went to open the studio door. 

 

“You coming?” he said as he held the door open. He knew he sounded very impatient, but he didn’t want to be late to his first class of the week. Brendon walked quickly past him, shoving hastily his left hand into his jean pocket. 

 

Ryan’s car was a grey Chevy that looked like it had too many miles on the clock and was in serious need of a cleaning. He loved it, though; it was the first car he had ever driven, and even if it did make some unusual noises every now and then and that the AC was broken, he couldn’t bear the thought of selling it. Someone else owning it, throwing their stuff in the back seat, someone else singing along to the shitty pop songs on the old radio? Definitely not. Ryan was determined to keep it till the day it fell apart. 

 

With a slight nod, he indicated the passenger door to Brendon while opening his own. The other boy walked swiftly to the other side and opened the car door, sliding inside. Having buckled his seatbelt -Ryan was nothing if not careful on the road-, he glanced sideways to see that Brendon hadn’t. Such reckless youth. He made a sound with his mouth, and Brendon looked up from the book he had pulled out. 

 

“Put your seatbelt on, I don’t want anyone to goddamn die in my car,” he mumbled, and watched Brendon put his book down on his knees and struggle to catch the seatbelt while not making his book fall. Ryan caught himself staring at the other boy’s hands. Long fingers, made for playing music; they were pale, though, some greenish veins showing through the skin. He wondered whether those hands of his came to use the night before, and how expertly they must’ve handled the whole Pete situation. Oh God. Ryan wanted to think of anything but Pete right now. He loved the guy as a brother, but sometimes he got a bit — overwhelming for Ryan. Pete liked to claim he was straight, that he’s only “living the life” and “making memories” and all that bullshit. He wouldn’t admit that he’s actually just really fucking gay. As for Ryan, he was still figuring himself out. There was no rush.

 

Starting the car, he didn’t say a word. Brendon, sitting next to him, was silent as well, reading his book intently, arms bare and eyes skipping on the page. Ryan wondered whether Brendon was cold: he was only wearing the old t-shirt he had given him, and it was already late autumn; the wind could be pretty harsh. He glanced in the backseat and spotted a coat of his. 

 

“There’s a, uh, coat in the backseat, if you want to take it for the day,” he said after a little while, so that it didn’t look like he was trying to make conversation. Brendon shrugged, not looking up from the book. Ryan felt somewhat vexed that a book could be more interesting than his company, and then remembered that he hadn’t been the nicest either. Gotta keep up the grumpy roommate act. But they _did_ have loud sex all night when Ryan was trying to study for his bio test. The diagrams on the page had become a big blur and he gave up soon after, but Pete’s bed’s headboard banging on the other side of the wall really didn’t help him sleep. Not that Ryan never brought anyone home, but at least, when he did, he was discreet about it, making sure Pete wasn’t there. Plus, he usually didn’t bring girls here: two guys living in the same confined space would’ve probably disgusted them — the dirty laundry, the questionable magazines and such. He preferred going back to the girls’ place; always smelled good and sometimes, if she was extra nice -or extra horny-, she’d even let him stay for the night. Most beds were more comfortable than his own. But when it came to guys, it was a different thing. Dudes didn’t really care about the state of the room. Not that Ryan had had sex with many guys. Just two. Or maybe three. Just to try.  Giving up on trying to convince Brendon to take his coat, he stopped talking for the rest of the ride. 

 

When they finally got to the university’s parking lot and Ryan stopped the engine, they both got out and started walking towards the main building. Suddenly, a gust of wind sweeped across the nearly-empty parking lot —which was weird, Ryan noticed, it was usually packed— and Brendon shivered, his backpack hanging on one shoulder. He turned to Ryan.

 

“Actually, I might take that coat, if you don’t mind,” he said sheepishly, a tiny and desperate smile on his lips. Ryan rolled his eyes and walked back to the car, opening the back door to reach for his coat. It was a good coat, dark brown and a bit worn out. Seemed like everything he owned was worn out. Slamming the car door a bit harder than he meant to, he stomped back to Brendon and nearly shoved the coat into his hands. Yeah, sure, Brendon was hot, but he was unbelievably annoying. They parted ways soon after, and Ryan tried to push Brendon out of his mind for the rest of the day. 

 


	3. B For...

Munching on the tasteless sandwich he got from the nearby convenience store, Ryan sat down on one of the benches in front of the main building. He was alone by choice; there were times he needed a break from his friends, and even though the week had just started, he felt claustrophobic and crowded in the packed hallways and cafeteria. Needed some time by himself. The wind had died down but the sunshine was still there, warming his face and hands. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face towards the sun, and, resting against the back of the bench, went still for a few minutes, taking in as much vitamin D as he could. Some younger kids were making lots of noise not too far away, but Ryan tried to ignore it.There was no point in getting irritated. As that thought left his head, the light that arrived directly on his closed eyelids suddenly disappeared.

 

“Uh, Brian?” 

 

He opened his eyes slowly, trying not to yell at whoever had interrupted his peaceful, somewhat unsuccessful tanning session. It was Brendon. So much for not thinking about him. 

 

“What did you just call me?” He said, a bit incredulous that Brendon didn’t even know his name. The other boy suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands and Ryan realised he was holding his coat. 

 

“Isn’t your name.. Brian?” He hesitated, sounding as if he’d be executed if it was wrong. Ryan huffed. If he could remember a name as uncommon as Brendon, surely the other boy could make an effort. 

 

“No, _Brandon_ , it’s not Brian,” he said as he smiled sweetly and emphasised the first syllable of the dark haired boy’s name. Seeing him cringe a bit was somehow nice. Ryan looked him straight in the eye.“But my name really doesn’t matter. What do you want?” Brendon looked away uncomfortably and extended the arm that held the coat. 

 

“I came to give this back. It’s pretty warm now, and I don’t think I’ll need it anymore. Thanks though.” Ryan took the coat without a word; Brendon hurried away after that, shoulders hunched, clearly embarrassed. Ryan felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. Maybe he had been too harsh. After placing the coat next to him on the bench, he went back to eating and not thinking about Brendon. He kept coming back in his head, though; it irritated him, the scene replaying again and again in his mind like he had embarrassed himself in front of a highschool crush and was trying to save a nonexistent relationship. Not that he had one with Brendon. The only person he knew that had a relationship with him was Pete, and Ryan was positive they didn’t have a lot of deep and meaningful conversations. He let his thoughts drift for awhile, but they always came back to the same trivial place: what was Brendon reading this morning? did his coat smell okay? did Brendon think he was a dick now? But there was no point in dwelling on that;what Brendon thought didn’t matter, what he was reading didn’t matter, and _he_ didn’t matter. 

 

The sun having disappeared behind gigantic clouds, Ryan shivered and quickly finished his now-soggy sandwich. Standing up, he crumpled up the wrapper in one hand while picking up his bag and slinging it on his shoulder. He then picked up the coat Brendon had given back to him and started walking back to the main building. He took a deep breath, trying to convince himself that it was to stock up with fresh air before going back in and not to try to catch a whiff of Brendon’s smell. Absolutely not. The boy was rude and careless and really not worth his time or thoughts. 

 

                                                                                                      ——— 

 

The day had been long. Ryan didn’t know whether he had aced the bio test or not, but what he did know is that he had a pounding headache. Also that Brendon smelled good. It hadn’t happened on purpose, of course. He just happened to put on the wrong coat after his last class; it smelled faintly of not-Ryan, which he assumed was Brendon. The other boy mustn’t have worn it for long, anyway; but it somehow still smelled of him, something reminding Ryan mildly of summer. The end of summer, when the apples start to ripen and the leaves start turning gold. 

 

Dropping his bag on the floor next to his desk, he let himself fall onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. Pete wasn’t home yet, and the silence was the nicest thing he had experienced today. Closing his eyes, he was surprised to be welcomed by blackness. No dancing images behind his eyelids, no embarrassed Brendons or loud Petes. It was oddly relaxing, and yet a bit scary. Did he cease to exist if he stopped thinking? No, that’s bullshit. He was there, physically. Tried to imagine what he’d look like from someone else’s point of view. A man -a boy, really- laying on his bed, flat on his back. Nothing weird, right? Beds are made to be laid on. And get laid on. This specific bed hadn’t seen much action yet, though. Ryan let his thoughts back in, and they started to wander, unruly beasts as they are. 

 

He heard the front door slam. Pete was home, and there was a dude with him. Groaning, Ryan slammed his pillow onto his head as he heard the two other guys stumble to Pete’s room. He just hoped it wasn’t Brendon. 


	4. Dear Reality

The alarm had been beeping for what seemed like forever when Ryan finally turned it off. He had hit the snooze button at least five times, and now he was running late, the red numbers on the clock showing 10:17 AM. Thirteen minutes to go before his first class started; there was no way he’d get there in time, and he hated the class anyway. He was on his third year of medicine, and absolutely despised it. The only thing that had made him stay in that university was that he had no idea of what he would do if he dropped out; he was afraid, though he strongly disliked admitting that to himself. He liked to believe that he was in control of everything happening to him, that he wasn’t scared shitless of the future and the prospect of never finding something he was passionate about. Reality was like this old friend that constantly reminded him that they needed to meet up and talk about things, but that he never wanted to see. Sometimes, she caught up with him and things were never good when that happened. 

 

Deciding to miss the class, he went to take a shower, rushing past Pete’s door as he heard two voices inside. One was Pete’s, and the other one definitely wasn’t Brendon’s. Ryan felt some sort of twisted relief that he tried to repress. Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door and turned the lock; there was no need for someone to walk in on him showering. Quickly taking off his wrinkled t-shirt, he looked into the mirror and decided he didn’t like what he saw. His hair was too long, unruly curls sticking out here and there; he’d always been told that his hair was nice, but he really didn’t see it. It was brown, not even with cool highlights. Nothing special. Another thing he kept hearing from people is that he was too skinny. He was all bones and sharp edges, and there was no denying that. That had never bothered him, but it clearly annoyed others. More than once had he been looked at disapprovingly for sticking his elbow in someone’s ribs without meaning to. Apparently, that hurt. His wrists were thin too, and once, a girl in his class grabbed it and yelled something like “Oh my God, Ryan Ross has chopsticks for wrists!” It hadn’t been the highlight of his day, but then again she had never been the brightest of the bunch either. Ryan wondered where she was right now. Probably working somewhere, feeling sorry for herself. 

 

Stripping completely, he stepped into the shower and turned it on. Warm water ran on his skin, and he took a minute to just stand there and appreciate the feeling of it, steam rising in clouds and turning the shower panes into canvases. Lifting his arm, he drew a stickman. He really needed to improve his drawing skills. Making the stickman disappear with a sweep of his hand, he proceeded to trace letters on another part of the pane, water dripping into his eyes, hair pasted to his forehead and neck. The letters were coming together to form a word now, then two, then three. He realised he hadn’t written anything really _his_ for a while now, like he used to back in high school. God, high school-Ryan had been lame. His writing was the only thing university-Ryan could somewhat stand. He finished showering, and, stepping out of the shower, tried to memorise the words shakily traced on the already fading steam-canvas. 

 

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked back to his room. The studio was quiet; Pete had left, and had taken his “friend” with him. Ryan knew he was working a late shift tonight, and that he’d have to cook dinner himself. One of the rare good things about Pete is that he cooked strangely well, and usually agreed to. Ryan sighed at the idea of his own cooking. It wasn’t bad, but could only be qualified as edible.

 

Once in his room, he grabbed the first piece of paper he saw and wrote down the words that had by now faded from the pane, but not yet from his mind. They looked messy on the paper, the letters bumping into each other, but it somehow felt good to write something of his own again. Placing the sheet of paper on his desk, he went to his closet. 

 

Finding a clean pair of boxers, Ryan put them on and went on a quest for jeans. He found a black pair soon enough, and grabbed a random t-shirt from the closet. Closing the mirrored door, he glanced at his reflection once again and looked away quickly. The clock on his bedside table indicated 10:34 AM: he still had time for breakfast. Strolling into the kitchen, he made himself a bowl of cereal and grabbed a spoon from one of the drawers. While eating, standing up in the middle of the kitchen, he wondered why they were called drawers. They didn’t draw, did they? Finishing up quickly, he scoffed at his own nonsensical questioning and went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

 

The day went by, painfully uneventful. Driving to school. Trying to listen in class. Lunch. His closest in-school friend, Patrick, handed him his bio test. He hadn’t exactly failed it, but there was no way that could be called “acing”. Patrick did, though, of course. Being a doctor had been his dream since he was 7, as he loved to remind everyone, and Ryan could see why. Patrick was good.

 

As he drove home, he tried to remember the words from that morning, but his mind was blank; and at that moment he was very glad he had written them down right away. Parking the car in his usual spot, he climbed the stairs to the studio, opened the door and sighed. He didn’t feel like cooking at all, but he was starving. Grabbing his phone, he ordered some pizza -margherita; the prospect of anything else made him feel mildly nauseous- and dropped onto the sofa. 

 

The bell rang, and Ryan jumped a bit in surprise. There was no way the delivery guy was that fast. Walking to the door, half wary, half hopeful, he swung it open, only to see a familiar-ish face. 

 

Brendon. 

 

He had a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth, one hand holding Ryan’s t-shirt, the other still on the bell. Ryan tried his best to keep a neutral face and lifted an eyebrow. 

 

“What are you doing here?” he inquired, harsher than he meant to be, and Brendon looked at him like he was stupid, the smile fading from his face.

 

“I came to return the t-shirt you so kindly lent to me yesterday,” he said, much colder than he was moments before, and Ryan couldn’t help but hear the sarcasm drip off his voice and felt guilty all over again. He reached out to grab the shirt. 

 

“Thanks,” he sighed. The other boy shrugged, and started to walk down the stairs. “Wait,” Ryan breathed, before his brain had the time to register what he was doing. Brendon turned around, inquisitive. “I just ordered some pizza, if you happened to want a slice.” Ryan didn’t know whether it was because he genuinely wanted Brendon to stay or because of the guilt nagging at him; he really ought to be nicer to this boy he barely knew. Brendon’s face was unreadable. 

 

“No, I’m good, thanks.” Ryan’s heart fell, rejection hitting him in the chest - it really wasn’t anything important, and yet it hurt. Maybe Brendon _did_ think he was a dick. Closing the door, he heard the other boy’s fast steps echoing in the staircase. He was still holding the shirt. His favourite. Ryan buried his face in it, and took a deep breath. He felt dizzy. 

 

The bastard had washed it, and now it smelled only of him. Of summer fading away. Of Brendon. 


	5. Someone Said

“I think I’m gonna ask her to marry me.” 

 

Ryan scoffed, and handed Patrick the pen the other boy had asked for. 

 

“You’ve known her for _three weeks,_ Patrick. Get a grip. For all you know, she might be an axe murderer” he said, scribbling in his notebook. Patrick’s eyes were dreamy.

 

“She’d look so badass with an axe, though,” he went on, and Ryan tried not to laugh. Patrick’s girlfriend was a petite girl with black hair, and she probably wasn’t even able to lift an axe. Ryan was pretty sure _he_ couldn’t lift an axe even if his life depended on it. He looked down at his twig arms and his notebook. 

 

The words were coming more and more naturally to him now, like the little part of his mind that he had kept locked ever since high school ended finally was opened up again. It felt good, in a way, but he felt strangely vulnerable, seeing pieces of his mind stretching so blatantly on the paper. He never showed anyone; Patrick was too nice to ask, and Pete just didn’t care. His other friends didn’t spend enough time with him to see him scribble. He only did when he really needed to, when words flooded his head and he wanted to keep them. He could type all of them down on his phone, too, but writing them on paper -he knew it was old fashioned and stupid- and seeing the ink stain his fingers made it feel so much more real. 

 

Patrick had gone back to reading his anatomy book, still mumbling something about Liz -said badass axe wielder- and Ryan sighed. Anatomy was the worst. He put his notebook back in his pocket and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

 

“I’m gonna go,” he said, and Patrick looked up at him inquiringly. “Headache,” he shrugged, gesturing to his own head as if the word hadn’t explained enough already. He even winced a bit, to make it more convincing. He didn’t know why he was lying; it wasn’t like Patrick would scold him for missing three classes, but it had come to him so naturally that he just went along with it. It scared him a bit, though. He never liked lying, even for the most insignificant things, but these days he caught himself doing it more and more. 

 

Walking to the parking lot, he opened his car door and got into the driver’s seat, dropping his bag onto the passenger’s. By the time he got home, his head was actually pounding. He scoffed. Seemed like even his white lies caught up with him. The steps leading up to his front door seemed to stretch on and on, and when he finally reached the top, he was shamefully out of breath. Exercise was one more thing to put on his checklist - not that he actually had one; there were just things that he had to constantly remind himself of, and now exercise was making that list. 

 

Sighing, he unlocked the door and let himself in. Pete hadn’t been home for three days in a row now, but he had texted Ryan telling him he was all good, just hanging out with a few friends. Ryan tried very hard not to think about what that actually meant, and then wondered within how many meals he would get sick of pizza. It turned out that he felt like throwing up the second morning at the sight of the slices from the night before. So much for not cooking. He had been living solely on pasta and fried eggs for the past day, along with a few apples he had picked up at the shop. The fruit made him feel like a well-balanced, responsible adult, which he knew he wasn’t. But reality could fuck off for a few days. 

 

Getting an apple from the kitchen, he went and sat down on the sofa. The silence around him felt nice, and he took a bite out of the fruit. His headache was still there, but less painful than it had been moments ago; setting the barely-eaten apple on the table, he let his head fall back onto the sofa’s back, and closed his eyes. No sunlight on his eyelids this time, and no Brendon to block the nonexistent rays. 

 

Ryan winced at the thought of the boy; he didn’t want to think of him at all. It was nearly a week ago that Brendon had showed up to give him his shirt back; Ryan preferred not to think about what had happened after. He had been through a state of hurt, disbelief, anger, and then just plain indifference. Or, at least, indifference is what he liked to tell himself; the sole fact that he still didn’t want to think of that episode said a lot about that “indifference”. It was nearly ridiculous that he had gone through all those different moods about that two-minute encounter and then pretended like it hadn’t happened, but he didn’t really know what was going on in his head either.

 

The high pitched wailing of the doorbell tore Ryan from his sleep. He had drifted into it without realising, but he seemingly needed it. He took a quick look at his phone only to realise it was already 6 PM. Scratching his head, he walked to the front door. It was probably Pete, he thought. The dude constantly forgot his keys, and Ryan had gotten used to opening the door for him, and made sure to complain about it frequently enough. It never seemed to make Pete take his keys, though. He opened the door as he yawned, and snapped his mouth shut as he saw who was behind the door. It was Patrick, carrying a whole lot of textbooks, his glasses crookedly on his nose, nearly sliding off. Ryan thought about reaching out to push them back up, but quickly decided against it: Patrick and he just weren’t that kind of friends. 

 

“I brought you these,” the shorter boy said. “You forgot them earlier on so I figured I’d drop by to give them back,”  he went on, still breathing heavily. “Man, those stairs are annoying.” Ryan took the books with a thankful smile, and put them on the dining room table. 

 

“Thanks, Patrick,” he said, and genuinely meant it. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much in class,” he added, smirking. Patrick smacked him on the arm and let out a chuckle. 

 

“It was all good, all good,” Patrick nodded, smiling a little. “I’m gonna -he gestured towards the staircase- I’m gonna go, see you tomorrow?” Ryan nodded back, not bothering to correct the other boy. It was Friday; they weren’t going to see each other til after the weekend. He wondered what was on Patrick’s mind as he walked down the stairs. He hadn’t asked whether Ryan’s headache was better either, but Ryan suspected that was just because Patrick never believed he _actually_ had a headache. Closing the front door, he walked past the dining room table and the books on it, not bothering to look, and fell back down onto the sofa. The apple was still there, with brownish spots where Ryan had bitten earlier on. Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling. There was a crack that he had never noticed before, and he stared at it until the bell rang again. Grumbling, he slowly stood back up. Maybe Patrick wanted something and had forgotten to ask. Maybe he just wanted company. Company would’ve been nice for Ryan right then.

 

“Did you forget someth-”, he cut himself off as the boy on the other side of the door didn’t have dirty blond hair like Ryan expected him to. In fact, Brendon was nowhere near Patrick’s height either. Ryan sighed. Brendon looked annoyed.

 

“I came looking for Pete,” he said, “but seems like he's not home. I’ll just come around some other time.” Ryan frowned.

 

“Don’t you own a phone?” He took his own out of his pocket and held it out to Brendon for emphasis. “And don’t bullshit that you don’t own one, this is the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.” 

 

Seemed like the whole “be nicer to Brendon” plan was falling apart quite quickly, but Ryan couldn’t help it. Words were tumbling out of his mouth. “Also, how come you sound so sick? Got a cold from the lack of coat the other day? Such a pity no one lent anything to you, huh?” Brendon  frowned. Shoved his hands in his jean pockets. Ryan could tell they were balled up in fists. 

 

“You can’t fucking tell me what to do, Ross,” Brendon spat. “I am an adult just as you are and I will _not_ stand here and let you insult me. Neither my lack of phone, my health nor my relationship with Pete have anything to do with _you._ You’re not the centre of the world, but you _are_ an arsehole, that I can promise you. I feel sad that Pete has to deal with a guy like you on a daily basis.” Ryan scoffed as Brendon turned around and angrily marched down the stairs. Slamming the door shut, he leaned against it and took a deep breath. He had fucked up spectacularly. 

 


	6. Lonely Puddle

Ryan unplugged his earphones as a new song came on; he really wasn’t in the mood for Savage Garden. Pete had come home, finally, but not before Ryan had the time to pick up all the books he had thrown all over the living room floor in frustration. He had helped him pick them up without asking questions, the first part being unusual for Pete; he never asked questions anyway. Maybe he had had a great few days.

 

Now, Ryan was lying on his bed, listening to silent earphones, leaving him with the sound of his own thoughts that he tried to mute. He was getting better at ignoring his mind, but there were times when it took too much space for him to pretend it was peaceful, or empty, or both. An empty mind was better than a mind full of a boy that you can never look in the eye again. A beautiful, dark haired boy who looked at you as you were nothing more than a stranger. No, it was worse than that, because one doesn’t have feelings for a stranger; one has indifference, the same indifference Ryan had tried to convince himself of. But what Brendon felt was clearly more than that. Ryan didn’t know whether it was hatred quite yet, but it definitely wasn’t something good, and that pained him more than he liked to admit. By this point, he hated the Ryan that Brendon witnessed more than Brendon did. He hated every single word that had spilled from his mouth in Brendon’s presence, hated his brain for coming up with them and his tongue for forming them. There was no way he could take any of it back, though, and now even thinking about it made him feel irritated and powerless. Yanking the earphones out, he ran a hand over his face and sighed. There was no point in dwelling on this. 

Getting back up was tough, but tougher even was seeing his reflection in the mirrored door of the closet. His eyes were circled by an unhealthy shade of purplish black and his hair was falling into his eyes. So this is what he looked like to Brendon. This mess of a boy. Ryan tried to remember the way his features were when he had opened that door the second time, which muscles he had used and what they felt like. What his face looked like as he was talking to Brendon. What the other boy had seen. It wasn’t pretty.

 

Turning away from the mirror, he picked up the few items of clothing that were decorating the bedroom floor. One of them was the t-shirt Brendon had borrowed; that one he left in a corner of the room. 

 

As the days went by, Ryan tried as hard as possible to act normal, but the lack of sleep from overthinking at night didn’t help. Once, he had started frying eggs and only the smell of burned food and Pete’s yelling pulled him from the haze he had been in. Another time, finding himself locked out of the flat, he sat down on the steps and waited for Pete to come home from work. When he finally did, Ryan realised that he had forgotten that he, in fact, had a phone and could’ve called Pete or even dropped by his workplace. Staring at his phone, he had let out a lifeless chuckle, thought of a guy who really didn’t own one and felt sorry for himself. 

 

———

 

He turned once more so that he was facing the window and not his closet. Moonlight was streaming in from the window -he hadn’t bothered to close the curtains- and made everything look coated in a layer of silver. His bed wasn’t comfortable and the sheets weren’t enough to keep him warm, his room temperature being overly low. He curled up on his side in a desperate attempt to maintain his body heat, but to no avail; too bad all the things going on in his head weren’t enough to keep the rest of him warm. 

 

Untangling his legs from the sheets, he sat up and put his feet on the wooden floor. He walked to the living room and, after a while of fumbling, hitting his toes on various pieces of furniture and swearing, he finally found the pack of cigarettes Pete always kept in his coat. Ryan didn’t usually smoke, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Opening the living room window, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag on it. Wind rushed in from outside, biting his bare shoulders and making him shiver. He didn’t move, though, and, leaning on the window frame, started to count. 

 

Three cars parked down on the street, cold and dark despite the efforts of the street lamp, abandoned by their owners like they were every night. Nine windows in the building on the other side of the street, zero lit up. Ryan wondered what kind of people lived behind them. Were they young? Old? Married? Were they happy? In a burst of selfishness, he hoped they weren’t; why would the rest of the world be allowed happiness if he wasn’t? One lonely puddle in the middle of the street, reflecting the light from the lamp. Four tears escaping his eyes, but at least two were from him yawning and one from the smoke he wasn’t used to. He tried not to think about why that last one had slipped out. Must’ve been the cold. Inhaling the last of the cigarette, he threw it onto the street to keep company to the puddle and closed the window, the warmth of the inside of the flat soon enveloping him once again.

 

His bare feet were cold on the floor, and he hurried back to his room. Getting back into bed and its now-icy sheets, he sighed and stared at the dark ceiling. So there it was. The undeniable thought that had been spinning in his head, the truth he didn’t want to admit to himself. He liked Brendon. Hell, he wanted him. Wanted his dark eyes and slender fingers, his narrow hips and flat stomach, his full lips and strong shoulders. 

 

Too bad Brendon hated him. 

 

 

———

 

Brendon let out an incredulous chuckle. 

 

“You’re kidding me, right? Is this some kind of joke? Did you put Pete up to this? I can’t believe-” 

 

“No. I meant that. I’m sorry. ” 

 

Ryan felt stupid and childish. He was sitting at the living room table, and Brendon looked like he was about to throw up. Ryan hadn’t put Pete up to this. In fact, this very chair at this very table was the last place he wanted to be right then. Pete had barged into his room that morning and, arms crossed, had asked what the hell was going on. That had honestly surprised Ryan. Pete never seemed to get involved in other people’s business, so him asking questions was unusual. 

 

“Why? There’s nothing wrong,” Ryan had answered, hoping his voice didn’t crack. He hadn’t talked to anyone in three days, and with that thought he felt sorry for Patrick, who had to sit next to him in every class. Hopefully he was with Liz now. 

 

“Don’t bullshit, Ryan. I notice stuff, y’know. And you haven’t done the dishes. It’s your week,” he carried on, and Ryan rolled his eyes. So there _was_ a reason. 

 

“Fine. I’ll do them, if that’s what you want.” He wasn’t in the mood to argue.

 

“No, that won’t make it. Tell me what the fuck is going on. I won’t have you die in this goddamned flat. What are you moping around for?” 

 

Ryan didn’t answer for a very long time, but Pete seemed to have all the time in the world and a sixth sense, because when Ryan started making up something about how the workload was too much, he just shook his head and looked at him accusingly. So Ryan told him everything. Not about the want and the like, just something about how he felt bad for treating Brendon so harshly. Pete’s face lit up. 

 

“Stay here,” he said, a knowing smile on his face that made Ryan wonder whether it had been the right decision to tell him everything. Probably not. He heard the front door slam. Definitely not. He hoped Pete was just out to get comfort food. 

 

It turned out that comfort food wasn’t food at all. Brendon was standing awkwardly in the living room when Pete dragged Ryan out of his own. 

 

“Now talk,” he had said, arms crossed, standing between the two as a referee in a boxing match. Ryan knew he’d be knocked out soon enough. Brendon looked confused. Or concerned; Ryan couldn’t really tell as he was trying his best not to look at him. After five minutes of complete and utter silence -apart from when Brendon shifted awkwardly to stick his hands in his pockets-, Pete sighed. 

 

“Fine, I’ll leave. Just- work it out, alright? I don’t want to be the one doing all the fucking dishes.” 

 

Now Brendon really did look confused. 

 

As soon as Pete left the room, the dam broke. Ryan muttered something -a lot of things- about how he felt like shit because of how he treated Brendon and that he wanted to be friends. And here we were. 

 

“ _Sorry?_ I don’t even know you, okay? I got your fucking name wrong _once_ , and you talked to me as if I was some kind of- of piece of _garbage._ Now you want to be fucking _friends?_ How do I know you’re not just mocking me or insulting me again?”

 

Ryan didn’t bother to remind Brendon that he was the one who called him an arsehole. But shit, he had also called him Ross. How did he know that? How did he know his last name? With that realisation, more and more questions popped up in Ryan’s head, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing he’d say something stupid if he didn’t. His silence seemed to upset Brendon even more.

 

“Pete dragged me here, so I think you owe me some explanations. Are you fucking mute? Ryan, for fuck’s sake, just answer the goddamned question!” 

 

Hearing him say his name broke something in Ryan. He stood up violently, making the chair fall backwards, crashing onto the floor.

 

“I get fucking mean when I’m nervous, alright?” He spat, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m a shitty person and this is just my way of dealing with it, and there’s nothing you can do about that. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing here. I’m sorry I was shitty to you, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I apologised and I think that’s more than enough,” he went on, “you can leave now, the door’s over there,” he finished, pointing to the front door, then shifted his gaze back to Brendon defiantly. The boy had his lips pressed together and a million questions in his eyes. His brows knit together, and he shifted slowly to get a better look at Ryan’s eyes. That made him feel incredibly vulnerable. Brendon parted his lips, and Ryan sucked in a breath. 

 

“Why would you be nervous around _me_?” 

 

The world crumbled. 


	7. If I was an Ion, I’d be an Anion

There were so many things he was trying not to do right then. 

 

Trying not to lash out at Brendon and say everything that had been on his mind ever since he came to terms with how he felt about the boy standing in front of him. Trying not to rush forward and kiss those lips of his. Trying not to show anything: it was quite rude and awfully awkward to state your feelings for someone who most certainly didn’t share them. That’s how Ryan’s mind worked: there was no point in speaking if it didn’t change anything. So, in usual Ryan fashion, he kept his mouth shut and did the only thing that seemed moderately reasonable right then: he grabbed Brendon by the shoulders and pushed him right out the front door, slamming it as soon as Brendon was on the other side of the doorstep. Ryan hadn’t looked at the other boy’s face; he knew he wouldn’t have stood it. 

 

At least now there was something physical separating them, something hiding Ryan’s bright eyes and trembling mouth. He was mad. Mad at Pete for bringing Brendon here, mad at Brendon for picking up on that single sentence. Mad at himself for even saying it in the first place. What kind of person said something like that? How stupid could he get? Recoiling from the front door he had been leaning on as if he could sense Brendon’s warmth through it -though he was probably gone by now-, he went straight for his room and once again slammed the door. If Pete dared to try to come in, Ryan was decided to do anything in his power to keep him out. Pete’s face was the last one he wanted to see right now. Apart from, of course, that guy. Ryan refused to think of his name, much less to picture his face, and yet he did. The questions hiding behind the dark brown irises, his lips parting oh-so-slightly to form the words that made Ryan regret ever even laying eyes on him. Him and his perfect body and stupid hair and his books and his non-existent phone. He chuckled bitterly. Why did he have to fuck it up? He would’ve been content with Brendon’s friendship. 

 

Actually, never mind that. He didn’t want to be friends with Brendon. It was better this way, and hopefully Ryan was never to run into him again, never catch sight of whatever made him so damn attractive. 

 

Being the coward that he was, Ryan decided not to go to class for the entire week. His pride took a blow and so did his dignity, but the shame was stronger, the heat creeping onto his cheeks whenever he thought about the way he had literally thrown Brendon out. Sometime during the week, he realised that his absence would’ve just confirmed whatever Brendon was suspecting. If he even suspected anything. If he even cared. Ryan couldn’t decide which would be more difficult to accept: if Brendon didn’t care at all or if he had everything figured out. He was pretty sure his silence had said everything, that the absence of words revealed everything he had tried so hard to hide.The most difficult part was to lie to himself and pretend it didn’t matter. 

 

 

———

 

Patrick had convinced Ryan to come hang out with him and Liz, and now Ryan didn’t know which one of them was regretting it the most. It wasn’t that they were bad company, just that he didn’t talk much, and that resulted in awkward silences punctuated here and there by giggles from Liz caused by Patrick whispering in her ear. 

 

He had never third wheeled in his life. It felt weird. 

 

He looked at Patrick. The boy had an oval and welcoming face and dirty blond hair that somehow never fell into his eyes. He was the kind of guy that you trusted with your life as soon as you met him, but that could fuck you up pretty bad if you wronged him, despite his height. Because, yeah, Patrick was short. He didn’t mind being teased about it -Ryan suspected he was used to it-, but Ryan tried not to do it too much; he didn’t like to be teased about his body either. He was happy now, Ryan could tell by the way he held himself and how he looked at Liz. 

 

Maybe he _is_ in love, he realised. He had never really taken Patrick seriously whenever he talked about how fond of Liz he was, but now Ryan really saw it. The way Patrick’s whole body was turned towards her, the way the usual stiff set of his shoulders had disappeared and how much he smiled at her. Ryan felt an unwanted burst of jealousy that he tried to repress immediately. They were his friends and he ought to be happy for them; their happiness didn’t mean the absence of his. He knew he needed to remember that, but it was difficult to be reasonable when the craving for intimacy overcame him. And right then, it was. He tried not to think about that and went back to observing the couple as if he was a scientist observing a chemical reaction. Maybe love was a chemical reaction, just ions and atoms, molecules and electrons. He disliked thinking that way, though. Ryan wasn’t a hopeless romantic, but he definitely liked to believe that love was this magical thing that dawned on you because of one person. He shifted his gaze to the girl.

 

Liz was the opposite of Patrick concerning looks: she was small as well, but with long glossy hair and eyes so dark they were nearly black. Ryan really liked her though he barely knew her; she gave out this vibe of kindness and gentleness that Ryan’s life seemed to cruelly lack. Maybe he just ought to have more of those in his life. Pete wasn’t what you could call gentle. He was nice, but rough, and he wasn’t the hugging type. Ryan wasn’t exactly the hugging type either, but that was mostly because everyone that had hugged him so far had complained about getting hurt by a rib or a collarbone of his. He wasn’t skeletal, but he _was_ thin. So, after a while, he stopped hugging and started pretending he disliked it.

 

“Why did you choose medicine, Ryan?” Liz’s voice roused him from his reflection. 

 

“Hm?” He said, even though he’d heard the question perfectly. It was just a terrible habit that he had, making people repeat things that he’d understood the first time. It wasn’t even out of malice, the sound just slipped out of his mouth before his brain had time to register he had even said something. Liz repeated the question. Ryan scratched the back of his head. It wasn’t the first time he was asked this, but he still didn’t know how to answer. How did you tell people you’re spending seven years of your life doing something you’re absolutely not interested in?

 

“Well, I just thought it was kinda cool,” he started, and immediately realised how idiotic that sounded. “Y’know, saving people.. and stuff,” he went on. That wasn’t any better, but Liz didn’t ask for more, just smiled at him a bit and nodded as if she understood. She was too nice to call him out on anything. 

 

Patrick was looking at him as if the answer to Liz’s question was obvious. Of course, Ryan thought. The guy was destined to be a doctor and save lives, always had been. Ryan envied him to have found the one thing he was passionate about so easily. Some days, it seemed like Patrick’s “path of destiny” -Ryan liked to be melodramatic sometimes, when no one was watching- was a tarmacked road, clean cut and easy to walk on, and Ryan’s, well, simply didn’t exist. It was the goddamned jungle. He was pretty sure there were things that were trying to kill him in there. “Blaze your own trail!” People said. “Be unique!” Ryan was certain that the people who said that were sad little humans stuck in a daily routine that they couldn’t escape. Because they dreamt of a life where they chose another path, the risqué one. They didn’t know how good they had it, on their large and clean roads. Only people who had a choice said uniqueness was good, and yet they always ended up choosing the opposite one. The safe one. What they didn’t understand is that some people didn’t have an option. Ryan felt like he had been dropped in the middle of the Amazonian rainforest and told “Be unique.” Thing is, uniqueness doesn’t feed you. A stable job does. So that’s what Ryan was doing. Trying to find the highway between the lianas. It wasn’t working out, and he knew that. 

 

 

He shrugged, and Patrick went back to looking at Liz; they were huddling together on Patrick’s couch even though the temperature of the room wasn’t exactly low. Ryan’s hands were cold, though, so he stuck them in the pockets of the jacket that he hadn’t taken off. He’d never intended to stay for long. He began to wonder what kind of excuse would make it acceptable for him to leave.

 

His phone rang, and he couldn’t get up from the armchair he was sitting in fast enough. Not that he was disgusted by Patrick’s hand on Liz’s thigh or the sparkles in her eyes when she smiled at him, but it just reminded him once again how he missed having someone close to him. 

 

Walking into the hallway, he picked up the phone. It was a number he didn’t know. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Ry?” A familiar voice said. Ryan smiled.

 

“Hey Spence. Yeah, it’s me,” he answered. “What’s up?”

 

Spencer Smith was Ryan’s childhood best friend. And his current best friend too, Ryan hoped. They hadn’t seen each other in at least a year, since—

 

“Not much, just, routine, y’know,” Spencer muttered, and, despite the seemingly careless tone Ryan could hear the smile in his voice. It was good to hear from him. “You?”

 

Ryan shrugged though his friend couldn’t see it. “Same thing, same people, same places. Spencer, I’m bored to death,” he complained. On the other end of the line, he heard a chuckle. 

 

“Will Chicago be able to change your mind?” Ryan stopped pacing in the hallway and pressed the phone closer to his ear as if that’d help him hear Spencer clearer.

 

“What do you mean—” he started as realisation dawned on him. During high school, they had always talked about going to Chicago together one day. Seemed like the day was here. “Oh my God, Spence. Oh my God. You realise this is one of our dreams come true, right?” 

 

They hadn’t told anyone else about this. People would’ve asked. Why Chicago? Why not New York or L.A.? They had no answer to that. Chicago just seemed like a place you need to see once in your life. Plus, Spencer lived in L.A. now. Pursuing his drummer dreams. He had been playing for as long as Ryan could remember, and he was good at it. The first time they’d met —they must’ve been five at most— Spencer showed him the mini drum kit he had. It was red and grey and made of plastic, but Spencer looked at it like it was his most prized possession. It probably was, considering. As they grew up, the plastic kit became a real one, and Ryan could swear that he had never seen anyone that passionate about the drums. Ever. Not that he knew a lot of drummers, but still; Spencer became another person when he played, giving everything he has. It was impressive and Ryan wanted to find something to love as much as Spencer loved his drums. 

 

Spencer chuckled again. 

 

“I’ll come pick you up next Wednesday. Sounds cool?” Ryan nodded out of habit, smiling more than he had in the past month.

 

“Yeah, I don’t think my car would survive the trip,” he sighed. “But thank you for this, Spence. You’re awesome,” he said, and genuinely meant it. He was looking forward to that road trip, forward to spending time laughing with his best friend again. He missed Spencer. 

 

“No problem, Ry,” he answered, the smile still audible in his voice. “I’ve missed you, man. I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

 

“Yeah, me too,” Ryan smiled. “I’ll see you soon. Bye.” Hanging up, he walked back to the living room where Patrick and Liz were probably making out. He didn’t really look, though, just poked his head through the doorframe, and warned them he was leaving, not bothering to wipe the smile off of his face. 

 

For the first time in weeks, he felt like he had something to look forward to. To be happy about. 


	8. The Road Not Taken

The days seemed to stretch on and on, refusing to get to Wednesday. Ryan went to the lessons for the first two days, warning his teachers he wouldn’t be here for the rest of the week. He didn’t exactly need to, as they really didn’t care who came to class or not, but he preferred to. 

 

Tuesday night, he felt restless. He hadn’t seen Spencer in so long. He sounded the same, but what if he’d changed? 

 

He turned in his bed once again so that he lay on his back, feet cold despite the two blankets he’d wrapped himself in. It was going to be fine. They had been best friends for all these years, why would not seeing each other for a while change anything? Ryan hoped they’d have things to talk about, and closed his eyes to drift into a dreamless sleep. 

 

——— 

 

The alarm beeped, and for once Ryan didn’t hit the snooze button. He sat straight up and blinked, once, twice; then looked at his nearly-packed backpack next to the bed. Saying it was nearly-packed was a gigantic overstatement, he realised as he got out from under the blankets and started to look for a pair of socks. He’d need socks. And maybe a few t-shirts. He didn’t know how many nights Spencer was planning on staying in Chicago, but it was better to be safe than sorry; he remembered the roadtrip they’d been on right after high school ended: Ryan was so excited he’d forgotten about half of the things he needed on a daily basis. He shivered at the thought of wearing the same t-shirt for a week and a half straight. 

 

So, this time, he shoved six t-shirts in the backpack, along with as many pairs of jeans he could fit in there. Then, abandoning the packing for a little bit, he walked to the kitchen and saw that Pete was fixing himself breakfast. 

 

“Hey,” Ryan said, voice still hoarse from sleep. The other boy turned around and nodded towards the fridge. 

 

“I put the milk back, didn’t know when you were gonna get up,” he said, taking a sip from his steaming mug. It had cat ears on it. Ryan suspected this man had a thing for cats, though he’d never admit it. Ryan was more of a dog person, but the landlord wasn’t exactly keen on them getting any pets. Too loud, he said. As if Pete’s regular conquests weren’t; Ryan thought back to the numerous nights where he couldn’t sleep because of that cursed headboard slamming on the wall. Maybe he ought to ask Pete to just remove it. 

 

He swung open the fridge door and grabbed the milk, then quickly poured himself a bowl of cereal. The ones they had weren’t his favourite, but it really wasn’t the day to be picky. He probably was going to eat junk food for the rest of the week, so he enjoyed the cereal. At least those were mildly healthy. 

 

Downing the cereal quickly, he put the bowl and spoon in the sink and walked out of the kitchen after telling Pete he was leaving for a few days. Pete didn’t really react. He was zoning out, eyes fixed on a corner of the kitchen; it seemed like someone had gotten even less sleep than Ryan the night before. 

 

Ryan’s phone buzzed as he opened his bedroom door. It was Spencer, telling him he’d be there in about three hours. Three hours definitely gave him time to finish packing, maybe even go get some snacks for the road — though he didn’t doubt for a second that Spencer would’ve thought of that. 

 

———

 

Spencer’s driving had definitely improved since last time they’d seen each other: he seemed more relaxed. He’d always been the careful type, the one who drove them back after parties in high school, the one that wouldn’t let Ryan do stupid shit when he was drunk. Ryan was so thankful for Spencer but had never told him; it didn’t seem to matter when they saw each other every day, and now that they were so far apart, he felt like Spencer had his own life and people who mattered more than him in it, so he kept quiet. 

 

“So, how’s school?” Spencer inquired, glancing away from the road for a few seconds. “Everything going okay?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ryan said automatically. It was the default answer for this question. People didn’t need to know more; most didn’t really care for the answers, just asked to be polite, for the sake of small talk. But then, Ryan remembered that this was _Spencer_. You didn’t lie to Spencer. 

 

“That’s such bullshit, Ry,” he said before Ryan could correct himself, and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He wanted Spencer to trust him, to know that he was still the same person. 

 

“Yeah, sorry,” he paused. “You’re right. It’s not okay. There are just so many people asking me that these days and I don’t want to spend hours explaining my choices, so I go for the short answer.” Spencer nodded slightly as if he understood. Hopefully he did. “But I guess it’s not time we’re lacking,” Ryan went on, looking at the highway stretching out in front of them. 

 

They spent the next two hours talking, about Spencer’s future —he was in a band, and he seemed really happy about it— and Ryan’s lack thereof. 

 

“Don’t say that!” Spencer exclaimed when Ryan told him how lost he was and that he felt like he wasn’t going anywhere. “We’re still young, Ry. Nothing’s stopping you from dropping out, you know. Just do whatever you love!” Ryan scoffed at that. It was easy for Spencer, who had grown up with his passion, to say that. Hearing him say that dropping out was an option made Ryan feel better, though. He’d thought about it before, but never really considered it because he was so scared. Now he knew he’d have Spencer, at least.

 

“Thanks, Spence,” Ryan said. He wanted to change the subject. “What made you think of going to Chicago now?” When Spencer had called him, he’d been so happy that he didn’t give much thought about why the other boy wanted to go so suddenly; now, it seemed a bit odd. November definitely wasn’t the best season to go. 

 

Spencer shifted gears then ran a hand through his light brown hair. His eyebrows were raised in a way that Ryan knew too well: he did that when there was something he apprehended, when he needed to say something he knew would trigger a negative reaction. Ryan braced himself. Spencer started speaking, eyes still fixed on the road. 

 

“A little less than a year ago, I met this girl at a show we were playing — she was there because her cousin liked us, and by some miracle she enjoyed the music. She came to see us after and it was like— this revelation. I don’t even remember if I managed to sign the CD the cousin wanted an autograph on because I was so— so mesmerised by her. Truly. It wasn’t just because she was gorgeous, but she had this thing— this aura-like thing around her and it was as if I was the only one to see it. I can’t really explain it, man. And then I built up the courage to go talk to her.” Ryan nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth. So he was the only one left, huh? The lone wolf. Spencer was smiling now, as if just talking of that girl made everything better. 

 

“Did you instantly fall in love and get engaged?” Ryan said, trying not to sound harsh. Spencer scoffed. 

 

“It was horrible, actually. I went to her and I don’t think she even knew I was in the band. I mean, c’mon, I know I’m behind the drums and stuff but I’m not that unnoticeable, right?” 

 

Ryan didn’t exactly agree with that: Spencer was very often the quietest of the bunch. From a stranger’s point of view, he’d be the last one someone’s eyes would linger on; not that he was ugly, of course. Spencer was handsome in every way Ryan wasn’t, and yet he went so often unnoticed that it upset Ryan sometimes. Spencer deserved more. 

 

Not answering, he just nodded.

 

“And then we talked for a little bit, and I learned that she was just on holiday at her cousin’s for a week or so. We saw each again twice—three times?— that week and it kind of dawned on me that she was the one.” Ryan rolled his eyes and Spencer glanced at him. “Well, maybe not _the_ one, but definitely one of them. One of the ones.”

 

Spencer knew Ryan didn’t believe in soulmates; not in the popular sense of the term, at least. Ryan believed that one person could have multiple soulmates, platonic or romantic, and that all of it depended on the phases of life. Spencer was one of them. Ryan forced his tired brain to do the math of why the other boy was telling him that story. 

 

“She lives in Chicago, doesn’t she?” 

 

Spencer did the closest thing he could to blushing without actually blushing. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

When Ryan didn’t say anything to that, Spencer looked at him as if to make sure he wasn’t mad. 

 

“Ry, I just want you to know that I wasn’t using our high school plans as an excuse to see Linda, alright? I promise.” Ryan shrugged. He wasn’t hurt, but a bit vexed that this road trip wasn’t solely for the sake of old times. 

 

“It’s cool, Spence. We’re getting to see Chicago anyway, right?” The other boy nodded and changed lanes. Ryan looked out the window: clouds were gathering and it was getting dark already. The days were getting shorter and shorter as December neared; Ryan hated it, the lack of sunlight making him feel like a bear that didn’t get to hibernate during winter. 

 

The car was silent for a while, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Ryan leaned forward to look at the radio.

 

“D’you have a CD player on here?” Spencer nodded and reached for something in the storage compartment between their seats. 

 

“Here, put this on,” he said, handing Ryan a CD with nothing on it but three letters followed by the word “DEMO” written sloppily in marker pen. 

 

“HTH?” Ryan questioned, lifting an eyebrow. Spencer chuckled, looking mildly embarrassed. 

 

“Hue To Hold,” he explained. “The name of my band,” he added when Ryan gave no sign of understanding. “I don’t know either, man. Dallon came up with it. Says it’s from a Frost poem.” 

 

Ryan smiled. He didn’t know Dallon, but he knew Frost. One of the only poets he’d read. 

 

As the first notes of the first song echoed in the car, Ryan decided he liked it. Not just because it was Spencer —the drums were loud and clear in this track, taking their due place— but also because of the lead singer’s voice, inexplicably sending chills down Ryan’s spine. 

 

“Who’s singing?” He asked after the last of the guitar went silent. Spencer beamed, not trying to hide the pride blatantly spreading across his face. 

 

“That’s Dallon, man. The guy sounds amazing, right?” he said as the second track started off with a guitar riff, followed by Dallon’s voice kicking in, powerful and confident. Ryan knew this song. Spencer nodded, the grin still on his face. 

 

“It’s the one I showed you last summer, remember? It was only bits and pieces back then, and now this is the nearly final product.” Yeah, Ryan remembered. He’d thought it was good, though he didn’t know much about music other than the guitar he’d tried to teach himself back in high school. It’d been an arduous task, not even worth it in the end. He didn’t get laid. 

 

He stayed silent for the rest of the songs -there were six or seven-, listening with rapt attention. The lyrics were good too; Spencer informed him that Dallon nearly wrote all of them, sometimes with the help of other band members, but mostly himself. Dallon was big on being self-reliant. 

 

“Isn’t that the whole purpose of a band, though? To write together?” Spencer shrugged, shifting gears.

 

“We don’t mind, really. He’s good.” Ryan had nothing to say to that, because it was true. The lyrics were beautiful and went perfectly with the music. He felt a rush of pride for Spencer and his friend that he only knew by name.


	9. Building, Breaking

Chicago was rainy, but somehow Ryan loved the green from the traffic lights that the wet ground reflected. The third day of driving had been nicer, Spencer having completely relaxed and Ryan feeling more comfortable around him as well. Not that he really needed to, but listening to Hue To Hold’s demo so many times that Ryan knew the lyrics by heart certainly helped. 

 

Dallon’s lyrics were so beautiful, twisted or angry when they needed to be, his voice powerful at times, soft during quiet acoustic parts. Ryan aspired to be able to write that way, so freely, not minding what people think. His words were still timid, unsteady, not taking their due place on the white paper of his notebook. He was insecure about them even when no one else could see. 

 

It turned out that Spencer had planned on them staying over at Linda’s. Ryan didn’t know how to feel about that: he hadn’t escaped Pete’s regular loud gay sex routine just to hear his best friend get laid. 

 

“We won’t.. You know,” Spencer reassured him, as if reading his mind. He cleared his throat as Dallon launched into the second verse in the speakers. “At least not when you’re here.” Ryan smirked and wiggled his eyebrows at him. 

 

“Smith getting laid, huh? Thought you were all about no sex before marriage,” he teased, reminding Spencer of their childhood conversations. Spencer had claimed that he thought sex was gross when they were ten, and that he’d only have it with one person, after getting married. That went out the window when he was 17. Ryan had to admit she’d been pretty, though. 

 

“And you’re an arsehole, Ryan Ross,” Spencer fired back, but there was a smile on his face. He lifted an eyebrow at Ryan questioningly. “Speaking of, when was the last time _you_ got laid, huh?”

 

It was Ryan’s turn to go very red. It’d been a long time since he’d had sex, but in no way was he going to admit that.

 

“Right before I left, in fact,” he said, trying to make it sound like he believed that. Spencer snorted. 

 

“You should wear all black,” Spencer advised solemnly, and glanced at Ryan to check if he’d heard him. The boy frowned in confusion. 

 

“Why?” 

 

Spencer shrugged, a mischievous smile on his face. “I don’t know,” he went on, “maybe to mourn your sex life?” 

 

Ryan snorted. 

 

 

“Fuck you, Smith.”

 

———

 

Linda’s flat was small but cosy, and a cat greeted them as soon as they walked through the front door. It was black and white, circling both men’s feet as they stepped further inside. The girl herself was blonde and slightly shorter than Spencer, a bright smile on her face as she extended her hand to greet Ryan, but not before having hugged her boyfriend. 

 

“You must be Ryan, right? God, Spencer’s told me so much about you!” Ryan wondered if that was true or just politeness, but one look at Spencer and he knew it was the former. That thought made him feel a rush of brotherly love towards the younger man, who was busy examining his nails to hide his embarrassment. Not that there was anything to be embarrassed about, of course. Ryan smiled back at Linda, nodding. 

 

“That’s me,” he confirmed, shaking her hand. “Thank you so much for letting us stay here.” A look of confusion flashed across Linda’s features, gone as soon as it had appeared. She glanced at Spencer.

 

“Of course! It’s all good,” she said, a bit too fast. “You guys must be exhausted, I’ll show you where you can put your stuff,” Linda smiled, starting towards one of the doors leading out of the living room. 

 

So, Spencer was to sleep in the same room as her, and Ryan was relegated to the living room couch. Linda seemed apologetic as she came to give him two pillows —more than the width of the couch could bear— and a duvet. 

 

“I hope you have a good night,” she said, sounding like it was more of a formality and less of genuine wish. Ryan thanked her and she hurried back to the bedroom she shared with Spencer, carefully closing the door behind her. 

 

Ryan closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep when a warm mass landed on his stomach. He bolted up as the cat hissed and jumped back to the floor, surely cursing him in every existing way, though Ryan couldn’t understand cat language. 

 

“Sorry, buddy,” he whispered, settling back down. “Forgot about you.” The cat vanished into the darkness, probably going somewhere to plot Ryan’s murder. 

 

He had just closed his eyes for the second time when he heard voices from the other side of the bedroom door. It was Linda, sounding displeased. Or confused, Ryan couldn’t really tell. 

 

“You didn’t tell me he was going to stay here too!” 

 

“Look, babe, he’s my best friend, I can’t exactly kick him out,” Spencer countered, sounding somewhat destabilised. “I’m sorry for not telling you.” 

 

Ryan frowned. He hadn’t known that Linda didn’t want him here, though her change of behaviour right after he’d thanked her for letting them stay over was an obvious giveaway, now that he knew why. He thought of going to a hotel the next day, though he really couldn’t afford it. 

 

“I just— I don’t want to share you, Spence. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you for that.”

 

Linda sounded weary, and Ryan imagined her in Spencer’s arms, the two of them intertwined, standing next to the bed. 

 

“I’ll figure this out, alright? We’ll spend time together, I promise.” 

 

Unwanted jealousy started pooling in Ryan’s gut, but this time he was powerless to stop it. This was their dream, their high school plans getting messed up by this girl. He’d known Spencer way longer, and certainly missed him more than she did. Spencer had been like a lifeline for him when things got tough at home, someone to confess everything to, and now he was gone. 

 

Silence was reigning over the flat now, and Ryan came to the conclusion that they were making out. Hopefully he’d fall asleep before they got any further. 

 

 

——— 

 

“I told you, it’s fine.”

 

Ryan could tell Spencer was feeling guilty and somehow that made him feel better. It wasn’t _fine_ , and they both knew that. Spencer had fucked up by telling neither Ryan nor Linda that they’d have to share not only a flat, but also him. Best friend, boyfriend. Was there any hierarchy in those terms? 

 

It seemed clear which was which as they sat in a coffee shop, waiting for Spencer’s friend. Or bandmate. Ryan hadn’t really listened when his best friend had spent twenty minutes explaining that he knew someone who wouldn’t mind Ryan crashing for a week. 

 

“His— His name is Jon. You’ll like him, I think. He plays guitar for Hue To Hold and I’ve honestly never seen someone that good.” 

 

Yeah, bandmate. 

 

Ryan looked down at his coffee then back at Spencer. The other boy was studiously concentrating on the little spoon that came with their cups, fingers restless on the shiny metal. Ryan sighed.

 

“Or, y’know, I could just drive back to Vegas. Save us all trouble.” He took a sip from his steaming cup as Spencer’s blue eyes finally landed on him, incredulous. 

 

“We came all this way to see Chicago, and you—” 

 

“No, Spence,” Ryan cut him off, anger suddenly rising in him. “ _You_ came all this way to see Linda and took Chicago as an excuse because you didn’t want to be alone. It really didn't matter who it was, did it? Could’ve been anyone.” He huffed. “Can’t believe I fell for it.” 

 

Lifting his cup, he downed all the coffee, ignoring the burning sensation the hot liquid caused in his mouth and throat. Spencer hadn’t said a word.

 

“Well, seems like your friend’s not coming,” Ryan snapped, standing up. “Must be a sign.” Spencer’s eyes were pleading as Ryan put his scarf on, but his mouth stayed shut. 

 

“T’was nice seeing you again,” he declared, watching Spencer flinch under the weigh of the sarcasm. “Hope you two have fun.” He turned away, walking towards the door as it opened to reveal a brown haired man with a friendly face and two days’ worth of stubble.

 

“Jon!” Spencer called out and stood up, making his chair scrape against the wooden floor. He made his way to Jon with short strides and hugged him. “It’s been a while, man. This is Ryan,” he said, gesturing to the boy who hadn’t moved. Jon nodded and smiled at him, revealing a row of white teeth; he seemed more than agreeable, but there was no way Ryan was going to play nice right now. Ryan cast a murderous glance at Spencer, but the drummer was too busy showing Jon to their table to notice. 

 

Spencer was beaming, having dragged a third chair to the table the two of them were sitting at before. Ryan had no choice but to sit back down, staring at his empty coffee cup. He might need a second one. 

 

Jon didn’t look awkward at all, setting his coat on the back of the chair as if he was with friends he’d known his whole life, not a short-term bandmate and a stranger. 

 

“So,” he said, finally sitting down and placing both his elbows on the table. “What’s the deal?” 

 

Great. He didn’t know what he was here for. Spencer really needed to work on his communication skills. Or to stop socialising at all; Ryan was doing just that and it seemed to work wonders. He thought of Brendon and the deplorable state of their relationship, if what they had could even be called a relationship. Definitely a good tactic. Spencer cleared his throat. 

 

“Well, we have some kind of a, uhh, situation here.” Ryan rolled his eyes. Now _he_ was the situation. The burden. “I mean, here’s the thing. I haven’t seen Linda in so long, and we need some— some time together.” Jon smiled knowingly, as if he’d found himself in that very situation before. So he knew who Linda was. Of course he did. 

 

“…And this guy needs somewhere to crash, right?” He glanced at Ryan. “Sure, he can stay at mine’s. As long as he doesn’t mind my mom, of course,” he added, leaning back in his chair. Ryan raised an eyebrow at Spencer. His mom? Spencer didn’t look at him. Ryan opened his mouth to decline as politely as he could, but his best friend spoke first. 

 

“Yeah, that’s awesome, man, thanks.” He nodded at Jon, genuine gratefulness in his eyes. Ryan huffed. He felt like an object put up for sale, and Spencer was willing to give him away for very little money provided that he could get rid of him to stay with Linda. 

 

“I’ll just go get my stuff and get the fuck out of her place,” Ryan muttered as he stood up once again. Spencer had a pained look and Jon looked confused. He felt a bit guilty for the guitarist as he made his way out of the café and into the cold November air. 


	10. Somniphobia (and other ink stained tunes)

Jon’s mother turned out to be a woman in her mid-fifties whose smile was the brightest Ryan had ever seen. She ushered both of them in, saying something about the horrible weather: the rain had started pouring just as Ryan had taken four steps out the café door, and hadn’t stopped since.Ryan’s soaked hair was hanging miserably in front of his eyes as he looked around the apartment. Framed pictures decorated the walls, and there was a vase filled with sunflowers on what he assumed was the dining table. It felt completely different from Linda’s apartment and Ryan felt safe, somehow. No murderous cats or disapproving girlfriends. Jon decided to make the —unnecessary, really— introductions. 

 

“Mom, this is Ryan, a friend of mine.” Ryan tried not to roll his eyes. They were barely even acquaintances. 

 

“Ryan, this is my mother,” he went on as she smiled once more and nodded. 

 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ryan! Are you in Jon’s music group as well?” She said enthusiastically, and Jon chuckled. 

 

“It’s a band, mama,” he said with no embarrassment, fondness clear in his tone. “And no, Ryan lives in Vegas.” Spencer had briefed him on his life story pretty well,or so it seemed. Did he also know about his shitty childhood? Ryan wondered. 

 

“Oh, alright.” Jon’s mother sounded oddly disappointed, as if her son’s bandmates were worth more than regular friends. “Do you play anything then? We’re a vey musical family, you see.” 

 

Ryan shook his head, feeling like he was failing his own mother. Not that he needed any more parent-related guilt. 

 

“She was a piano teacher,” Jon explained. “I was basically born into music.” 

 

“I tried guitar back in high school, but it never really led anywhere,” he shrugged, glancing at Jon who had the slightest of smiles. An awkward silence followed. And another. 

 

As Jon showed Ryan around the flat like his mother had suggested before disappearing into the kitchen to make the “most delicious dinner you’ve ever had, I promise”, questions popped into his head. 

 

“Hey, Jon,” he said as the other boy opened a third guitar case to show him his babies —his words, not Ryan’s—: “Won’t your mom… think things of us?” Jon looked up from the guitar and frowned. 

 

“What do you— oh.” Understanding shone in his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. “No, I— I’m not, well, you know. Got a girlfriend. And all. She’s, uh, she’s back inL.A., though. So, yeah.”He cleared his throat and shifted his focus back to the instrument that he had now extracted from the case. 

 

It was funny how, in a society that advocated recognition and acceptance of the LGBT community, it still was awkward and unconventional to learn that someone was anything else but straight. Ryan shrugged. 

 

“That’s cool, I just thought she might assume things. No one wants that.” Jon nodded enthusiastically, one hand settling on the guitar neck, the other brushing gently against the steel strings. Ryan silently scolded himself for even bringing that topic up.Way to make things uncomfortable. 

 

Jon started playing a tune that was somehow familiar to Ryan’s ears, immediately lightening the mood. It sounded different on acoustic, but he could definitely remember Dallon’s voice over the melody. 

 

“This is off your demo, isn’t it?” He asked, and saw Jon’s face break into a grin. 

 

“Yeah! Man, done your research, huh?” He kept playing, hands restless on the instrument. Ryan crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wall, whispering the words to the songfor himself, under his breath. He didn’t want Jon to see that he knew them all. 

 

“What’s this song called?” The CD Spencer had in his car only had the music, no more information on the names of the songs. Or the lyrics, for that matter. Ryan was probably singing half of it wrong, and Spencer wouldn’t tell, saying he’d see once the album was out, but Ryan suspected it was because he really didn’t know. 

 

“ _Set In Stone,_ though we’re still working on the titles. I like them, but Dallon says they’re too cheesy.” Ryan chuckled, liking Dallon more and more. Jon shrugged in a “what can I do, he’s the frontman” way, but Ryan could tell there was no malice behind it.

 

“What about the album, do you already have an idea?” Ryan didn’t know how the naming process worked at all; let alone whether the album title was a very important thing, but he was curious.Jon nodded. 

 

“Most of us agreed on _Somniphobia,_ but nothing’s sure yet. Spencer came up with it. He didn’t tell you?” Ryan shook his head. There were apparently a lot of things Spencer didn’t deem important enough to tell. Or maybe Ryan wasn’t important enough to tell these things to. Either way, all that hiding and omitting was definitely improving their friendship. He tried to stop thinking about it and focused on what Jon had just said. 

 

“No, but it’s a pretty cool title,” he smiled supportively. “I’ll definitely get your record once it’s out.” Jon smiled back at him, pleased, and took the guitar strap off his shoulder to offer the instrument to Ryan. 

 

“Wanna try?” 

 

——— 

 

“E, not Em,” Jon repeated as Ryan struggled to move his fingers to form the correct chord. His arm was sore and he couldn’t remember which chord was which. 

 

“I’m sorry, Jon, I don’t think I can do this. It’s pointless, we’ve been at it for three hours and—” Jon held up a finger, telling him to stop talking. 

 

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

 

Ryan thought about it. Did he really need someone to tell him how shitty he was? Not really. 

 

“It’s good, man, I know what you’re thinking. No need for that.” Jon shook his head and chuckled.

 

“You’re good, Ryan. You really are. Like, I know it’s tough right now because the strings are fucking killing you —he wiggled his fingers at Ryan— but it’s so awesome to be able to play stuff. Even if it’s someone else’s.” 

 

Ryan felt something like pride slowly appear in his chest, but he knew that, once back in Vegas, everything he did here was going to waste. 

 

“Thanks,” he said, and looked down at his hand gripping the guitar neck, placing his fingers between the frets. The steel stung his fingertips but he pressed down harder, forcing the notes out with his other hand. 

 

“E,” Jon repeated, feigning annoyance, but his voice had a teasing tone to it. Ryan chuckled and put his index where it was supposed to be. He was liking Jon more and more, and not only because he’d praised him on his shitty guitar skills, but because he seemed like a genuine guy. One that would tell him if he sucked. He was glad for Spencer and Dallon in that moment — having such a guy in a band could only be a good thing. No wonder the tracks were all great, even for demos. 

 

“Could we listen to _Somniphobia_ again?”

 

——— 

 

It turned out that Jon wrote, too, and that most of the backing vocals on the demos were him. He was an easygoing guy, that obviously had given everything he had to music. He’d gotten his first guitar age 12 —he still had it, a small acoustic with two broken strings and some obscure band’s sticker on it— and played ever since. Ryan was impressed by the commitment Jon showed. He also learned a bit more of Hue To Hold’s history: Jon and Dallon met at an open mic night in L.A., where Jon was performing to make a little money; he had been seeking people to form a band with and Dallon was visiting a friend who’d just moved to L.A.. Spencer came in a little later, through a mutual friend. 

 

“Dallon’s a great guy,” Jon repeated, and Ryan nodded. All he’d heard about him so far was positive stuff. Ryan caught himself wondering what he looked like. If he was handsome. He had to be, right? Frontmen were always handsome. 

 

“There are still two or three songs that we haven’t finished yet,” Jon explained as the CD played the silence between two tracks. 

 

“Are you gonna make _Set In Stone_ the single?” It was catchy and upbeat, with more of a pop-like vibe, unlike most of the other songs. It’d fit the radio. 

 

“I don’t even know if we’re gonna release a single, to be honest. We’re not signed,” Jon explained, and Ryan nodded as if he understood everything about the music industry. The second track started and Jon smiled broadly. 

 

“This is my song,” he said, beaming. “The only one I’ve ever written that’s made me more or less satisfied. It’s called Winter Rose.” 

 

Ryan found himself wishing he could twist his words to fit notes as Dallon’s voice sang Jon’s lyrics, somehow managing to convey everything in the right way. The words weren’t strangers to Dallon’s mouth, even though they weren’t his.

 

“It’s really good, Jon,” he said, meaning every word. He took a deep breath. “Could you teach me how to write songs?” Jon’s eyes went slightly wide and he paused the song. 

 

“I’d love to, but I’m really no professional, you know,” he said apologetically. “We can try to do that, though. Do you write? At all?”

 

“I— yeah, I do. It’s just random thoughts,” he added hastily when he saw Jon starting to smile. “Nothing good.” 

 

“Random thoughts are the start of it all, my friend,” Jon affirmed, picking up the acoustic once again. Ryan smiled and thought of his ink-stained notebook, avoiding Brendon’s name scribbled here and there inside it. He wasn’t going to write a song about him. Hopefully. 


	11. Thought As Much, Not Aloud

 

There were three things Ryan was sure of once he got back to Vegas. One, he was dropping out of college. Two, he had to get a guitar. Three, L.A. was his next holiday destination. He had to meet all the members of Hue To Hold. Apart from Dallon, there was a fourth guy called Joe, who also played guitar. Jon hadn’t had the time to tell Ryan much about him, but Spencer stated that Joe was “pretty cool” on their trip back to Vegas. Those words had been punctuated by a shrug, so Ryan didn’t spend too much time thinking about that fourth member of the band. 

 

Ryan had left Jon’s with the guitarist’s word to send a copy of Hue To Hold’s demo —Spencer didn’t own any more—, two guitar picks, one guitar strap, a dozen of delicious cookies from his mother, and many chord charts in his mind. 

 

It had been a good week, one of the best he’d had in a long while, though he didn’t get to spend nearly as much time with Spencer as was originally planned. It’d been alright though, because Jon had shown him the best record stores in town and brought him to his favourite guitar place, where they’d looked around for a whole day, trying out random instruments without buying anything. The shopkeeper had seemed annoyed but the boys pretended not to notice. They’d taken random straps out to try, and one caught Ryan’s eye. It was a red strap with white lettering on it in a simple script. The shopkeeper had shrugged when Ryan asked him were it came from: some of them were secondhand. For no particular reason, Ryan decided to get it, though he didn’t even own a guitar to attach the strap to. He’d have to buy one someday. So that was thing number two. 

 

As for thing number one —dropping out of college— he wasn’t actually _that_ sure: one moment, he was determined to march into the principal’s office and tell her he quit, and the next he was worrying about the paper he still had to turn in. When Ryan had talked about this with Jon, he’d told him to keep going unless he was ready to truly commit to something else, and that made sense. Sometimes Ryan wondered whether Jon was an old sage hiding under the skin of a 25 year-old Chicagoan that lived in L.A. 

 

 

Pete wasn’t home; he hadn’t texted to say so, either, but then again it wasn’t like they were a couple. Patrick would probably call them domestic if he wasn’t Patrick, who’d become Mr. Domestic since he’d gotten together with Liz. Ryan wondered how they were doing and promised himself he’d call his friend soon. 

 

The goodbyes with Spencer had been brief, though they didn’t lack warmth and friendliness: Ryan had forgiven him after the third day of free doughnuts delivered right to Jon’s door. He’d also proposed that Spencer stay the night to leave the three hour drive from Vegas to L.A. to the next day but the drummer had declined with the wave of a hand. 

 

“I gotta be in the studio tomorrow at ten,” he’d explained apologetically. “Can’t let Dallon do the work by himself, right? There’s a song that he wants to call _Go Fuck Yourself_. Unbelievable. Need someone sensible to talk him out of that idea.” Ryan laughed out loud at that, imagining Spencer desperately trying to convince his lead vocalist that, yes, there’d be teenagers listening to their album and that, no, changing the title didn’t take anything away from the song. 

 

“Is it the angry one at the end of the demo?” He queried, wondering who’d hurt Dallon so much he’d write lyrics so blunt. That song wasn’t sugar coated at all. 

 

“Yeah, that’d be the one,” Spencer chuckled. “Dallon doesn’t usually swear but he insisted on this one, for some reason.” He seemed lost in thought for a few seconds before looking back up at Ryan. “Thanks for the invitation, though, Ry. Make sure to come visit us sometime soon, alright?” 

 

Ryan nodded and watched as Spencer’s car drove off. He would visit soon. Thing number three. 

 

Now, Ryan was alone in the studio, and two pieces of paper on the kitchen table caught his attention as he walked in. One of them was covered in a familiar handwriting — Pete’s. His letters were all capitals, with some bigger than others to distinguish the actual capitals. Ryan could tell he’d been in a hurry, the pen still next to the paper, the letters almost falling off the page. 

 

_Ry—_

 

_Someone left a note for you, was under the door; not sure who, but I saw a number — better call them up!_

 

Next to that, Pete seemingly had had the time to draw a winking smiley and a slightly more obscene doodle. It had hair. 

 

Ryan snorted and went to look at the second paper, curious as to who would’ve left him a note. Not someone he knew, by the looks of it. The handwriting was a little bit similar to Pete’s but the letters were smaller, taking up less space. 

 

_ Ryan,  _

 

_ I feel like we both have some explaining to do, so please let me know when you’re back.  _

 

Under that was a number, and beneath the scrawled digits, was one single letter that made Ryan’s skin a few degrees warmer at once. 

 

— _ B  _

 

 

So that fucker finally got himself a phone, Ryan thought. Good for him. 

 

Discarding both bits of paper on the kitchen table, Ryan dug into his backpack to fish out the box that contained the cookies from Jon’s mother. Well, what was left of them: Spencer and him had gotten quite hungry during the trip. 

 

Biting into the biscuit, he leaned against the tiled wall, far away from the table that showcased the number he didn’t want to memorise. He’d already remembered the first three digits. Huffing in annoyance, he walked out of the kitchen in a few strides to reach the bathroom and take a shower.


	12. Laugher's License

He didn’t have any explaining to do. Why couldn’t Brendon understand that? Usually, slamming the door in one’s face didn’t make them want to look for explanations. Hell, slamming the door _was_ an explanation. A statement. Apparently, Brendon didn’t believe in implicit signs of refusal. Or maybe he was just really, _really_ thick, but Ryan suspected it was the former. 

 

It’d been about a week since he’d gotten back from Illinois, and the routine had started again. Classes. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. The occasional hang out session with Liz and Patrick. It’d been good to see them again, even though Ryan had only been away for a week or so. They were still disgustingly in love, but Ryan couldn’t help but smile at the thought. He wasn’t as jealous anymore.

 

 

“Ryan!” Pete’s voice woke him up suddenly, coming from the living room. 

 

“What is it?!” he yelled back, glancing at the alarm clock next to his bed. 11AM. Oh well, it was a Saturday. 

 

“Someone here for you!” Pete answered, sounding impatient. “Move your ass, I don’t have all day,” he added, ending with a string of curse words Ryan suspected were directed at him. Dragging himself out of bed, he slipped a t-shirt on and walked to the living room, where Pete was waiting by the front door, arms crossed in front of his chest and a disapproving look on his face. 

 

In the doorframe was Brendon, looking sheepish and somewhat uncomfortable. Pete didn’t just look disapproving, Ryan realised after glancing again. He looked… Frustrated. And he wasn’t looking at Brendon. What was up with these two? Ryan thought they were purely seeing each other for physical reasons. 

 

“Hey,” Ryan said before remembering why Brendon was there. Last time they’d seen each other, Ryan had thrown him out. It was almost a miracle that he was there, and Ryan had nothing to do with it. He hadn’t called him, hadn’t done anything to reach out and make him even _think_ that he wanted to talk. Pete walked away hastily; he really didn’t want to be here.

 

“Hey,” Brendon answered, eyes following Pete for a few seconds before looking back at Ryan. He cleared his throat and leaned against the doorframe casually, as if there was no tension between them. There was, and it wasn’t the good kind, but the relaxed set of his shoulders almost convinced Ryan that it wasn’t there. “So I guess you didn’t get my note?” 

 

Ryan felt his cheeks burn and hoped they weren't turning red. Why did he have to say it so bluntly?He had worked so hard on not feeling guilty, on not thinking about that cursed bit of paper. 

 

“I did, I just—” Just what? Was too much of a coward to call him? You could’ve texted, he’d say. Lost my phone? Like he’d believe that. Ryan opted for the least original lie. “I just forgot. I’m sorry.” 

 

Truth was, he hadn’t forgotten at all. It wasn’t from lack of trying, of course. He’d tried hiding the paper, getting it out of his sight, not having the strength to throw it away. He would’ve liked to do that, but there was a little voice in the back of his head that constantly nagged at him, telling him that it didn't mean anything if he just saved the number into his phone, and that it was okay that he saved it under Bren and not Brendon. Luckily, it hadn’t convinced him to call yet. Not that he needed to call now that Brendon was literally a metre away from him, of course, but Ryan was proud of himself for not having given in first. He had lost enough of his dignity throwing him out. 

 

“It’s fine,” Brendon said, but it was clear that he hadn’t believed Ryan for a single second. Ryan shifted uncomfortably as if to hide his own lies. “Do you wanna go for a walk?” It was more of a statement than a question, really. Ryan nodded, staring at his feet. 

"Let me just dress first," he said, gesturing to his pyjama bottoms. Brendon nodded back, a small smile on his lips.

Once Ryan was done, Brendon moved from the doorframe to let him through, but didn’t walk down the stairs first. 

 

Once outside, Ryan shivered. The jacket he had on let the icy wind through, taking all his body warmth with it. Brendon noticed, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked silently, and Ryan wondered in disbelief whether they were really just going to walk. As if a walk could solve anything. Brendon spoke. 

 

“Look, I thought about your proposition,” he said. What proposition? Did Ryan ever suggest anything? In all honesty, he couldn’t remember much of their argument, except his gut-wrenching fear that Brendon would’ve figured out everything. They weren’t kissing now, so that meant that Brendon either had figured it out and that the feelings weren’t mutual or that he simply didn’t know anything. “To be friends,” Brendon clarified, as if he knew that Ryan had repressed any recollection he had of that night. 

 

“Oh,” Ryan said, not sure what that meant. He wanted to be friends? “Alright,” he added, looking at Brendon and remembering what he’d proposed. He’d almost begged Brendon to be his friend. Brendon’s cheeks were reddened by the early December wind but he didn’t seem cold, hands disappearing into his jacket pockets. A smile slowly appeared on Brendon’s face, and he glanced at Ryan, his dark eyes flickering with mischief, and Ryan did his best not to imagine how those eyes would look animated by lust. How dark they would get.

 

Friends. They were friends. 

 

“I just wanted to ask, why did you say—” Brendon started, but cut himself off, apparently realising that Ryan was displaying all the signs of not wanting to talk about what had happened before. 

Brendon suddenly stopped walking, and Ryan took a few more steps before realising the other boy wasn’t following anymore. Turning around, he looked back at the figure that hadn’t moved. 

 

“I’m Brendon,” he called out, still stuck in place as if his feet refused to take any steps forward. Ryan didn’t move either. 

 

“I’m Ryan,” he said, and couldn’t help but smile. It must look ridiculous, two grown men introducing themselves on the street, standing five feet apart, but somehow it felt natural. Though they had never exactly _hung out_ , yelling at each other in public didn’t seem odd. Brendon took a step back, putting more distance between them. 

 

“I’m sorry?” he shouted, “I didn’t get that!”

 

Ryan chuckled. Maybe it was going to be fine if there was just friendship between them. This was good. He could do this. 

 

“I said, my name’s Ryan!” He yelled back, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. He wasn’t cold anymore, though. 

 

“Cool!” He shouted again, loud enough for everyone to hear —not that there were many people in the street— and jogged back to Ryan.

 

“What was that?” Ryan said, half laughing, half concerned. Brendon grinned widely. 

 

“Friendship test,” he said, “to check if you’re weird enough for me.” Ryan snorted and looked at Brendon again. They were adults, for fuck’s sake. 

 

“And?” 

 

“What?”

 

“Did I pass it?” 

 

He didn’t get an answer to that, just a shrug and a mysterious smile. Ryan suddenly worried that Brendon might be bat-shit crazy. Beautiful, but insane. Who knew what kind of people Pete liked. They kept on walking, making random comments and telling jokes when the silence got a bit too much to bear. 

 

Once they got back to Ryan’s front door, Brendon stopped him before Ryan could close it between them. 

 

“Hey,” he said, hand on the door. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Brendon smiled.

 

“You passed it.” 


	13. Doce

New Year’s Eve wasn’t that big of a deal to Ryan, but Brendon insisted on them all celebrating it together, and that plan had been thoroughly approved by Patrick and Liz. They’d taken Brendon in fast, and Ryan had realised that the younger boy didn’t have as many friends as he originally thought, and that he’d much rather spend the evening with them. Even Pete had seemed on board, which was quite unusual. A shrug was all he’d given as an explanation when Ryan jokingly asked him why he betrayed him. 

 

“Just don’t expect me to be all happy-go-lucky around your… friend,” he’d said after Ryan told him Brendon would be there too. He still needed to find out what had sparked the animosity between those two. 

 

Liz and Ryan were setting the table and joking around, Pete and Patrick having insisted on no one else entering the kitchen. Ryan wondered what they’d made. The kitchen didn’t have a lot of groceries but it was already smelling amazing; Ryan hadn’t known Patrick cooked as well. 

 

“Yeah,”Liz smiled when Ryan asked her about it. “We take turns. He makes great Italian food, but he won’t tell me where he learned to do it.” 

 

“Maybe he’s secretly Italian,” Ryan said while setting a fork down next to a plate. With his free hand, he mimicked the typical hand gesture and Liz laughed, setting the cutlery she held on the table as well. There was a knock on the door, and Ryan rushed to open it, already knowing who to expect. His heartbeat accelerated automatically as he saw Brendon on the other side of the door, cheeks red from the cold and hair messy, a plastic bag in his right hand and a beanie in his left. 

 

“Hey!” He said, lifting the hand holding the bag and giving it to Ryan. “I brought beer, I hope it’s alright. There’s also something else in there, but don’t look.” Ryan nodded, stepping aside to let Brendon in. He wondered what the something else was, and his stomach flipped at the thought of a belated Christmas present from Brendon. “Your doorbell’s broken, by the way,” he added, taking off his coat. 

 

“It’s cool,” Ryan said, driving the thoughts out of his head. “It was way too loud anyway.” Brendon smiled and walked to the living room, and Ryan heard Liz greet him as he put Brendon’s coat away. Those two had gotten along right from the start, Ryan could already hear them laughing, the sound echoing in the small living room. Ryan hoped that the evening would go well despite the tension between Pete and Brendon that obviously hadn’t faded. 

 

Walking back to the living room, he saw that Pete and Patrick were there too, trying to manoeuvre so that the seemingly steaming-hot dish Patrick was holding wouldn’t fall to the floor. Some yelling and preventive arm flailing later, the plate was finally in the middle of the table in all its platey glory.

 

Ryan looked around at the decorations that Pete had scavenged from his family home, leftovers from Christmas. Ryan had spent about an hour trying to fix the tinsels to the wall. He’d tried tape, but that barely worked so he found a stapler; all was going quite well until Pete saw him and yelled that he was insane, and that the landlord would murder them and put their skin up on display as a warning. So tape it was. One of the tinsels was already falling off. He cursed Pete under his breath and looked at the pile of books on the floor that he hadn’t bothered to put away. Hopefully no one would trip on it. 

 

“Damn, that smells good.”

 

Brendon walked closer to the table and Liz did the same, both of them circling it like two lions trapping a prey. 

 

“It’s a lasagna,” Patrick beamed when Brendon finally lifted the lid, as if announcing a birth. Ryan looked at Liz. She was smiling proudly at her boyfriend and cast a glance in Ryan’s direction. Told you, her eyes were saying.

 

“It’s not exactly traditional, but then again we’re not the most traditional people either, right,” Pete added and gestured to the table. There were two candles, one on each side of the dish. Liz had insisted for them to be there: “Ambience,” she’d said, though Ryan didn't really see what it added. They had enough light and no need for a fire hazard. 

 

“Sit down, my friends!” Pete didn’t look at Brendon. They sat, and Patrick offered to serve despite Ryan’s protestations. 

 

“C’mon, I’m the host, let me do something,” he argued, but Patrick would have none of that. It was _his_ lasagna, his pride and joy, and he’d be the one dispatching it to everyone’s plates or no one would. 

 

——— 

It turned out that Ryan had never had lasagna as good as Patrick’s. He was just about to take a third plateful when his phone buzzed. He ignored it; Pete was busy telling a story about an old woman that owned fifty cats, according to him. Fascinating conversation.

 

“I swear to God, there’s this black and white one that’s just. It’s just so fluffy, man.” 

 

Ryan hadn’t known that Pete was going to cat-sit once a week at that old woman’s, but apparently he’d been going for a good two months now. 

 

“One of them just had kittens and I have never seen anything as cute as those tiny balls of fur,” Pete went on, and Ryan chuckled. Liz aww’ed and Patrick smiled down at his lasagna. 

 

Pete had bought ice cream for dessert. Ryan complained about it, saying that it was already freezing outside and that he didn't need to ingest frozen goods, but Pete wouldn’t let it go: he insisted that it was a family tradition and that they’d get bad luck for the whole year if they didn’t have chocolate ice cream on New Year’s Eve. 

 

They were just about done with the ice cream when Ryan’s phone buzzed again, and he slipped his hand into his pocket to take it out. Patrick and Pete were laughing at something Liz had said, and Ryan looked down at his phone.

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

It was Brendon’s voice, tinged with worry. No, Ryan wasn’t alright. It was one of the rare moments where everything was going good, and _he_ had to ruin it. Pete and Brendon had been doing great, sitting on opposite sides of the table and making an effort. Well, Pete was making an effort. It didn’t seem like Brendon had to work to be social, talking to everyone casually and laughing at the bad jokes Patrick was making (One of them being: “Do you want some Liz on ya? Well, you’re not getting any, cause she’s mine! Get it? Lasagna?”) Now, though, he looked concerned as Ryan looked up from his phone, the smile fading from his lips. 

 

“I’m fine,” Ryan said, standing up from his chair. “I’ll be right back,” he announced to the rest of the table, and walked towards his own room. Brendon didn’t follow, but Ryan could feel his gaze on his back. 

 

He closed his bedroom door behind him, and leaned against it. Of course it had to be on New Year’s Eve. Going out with a bang. He ran a hand through his hair and tried not to feel guilty, walking to sit on his bed. There was soft knock on the door, and the handle turned, soon revealing Brendon. He still looked concerned.

 

“Hey, Ry,” he said, closing the door carefully behind him. Ryan didn’t look up at him, staring at his hands, phone discarded on the bed. Brendon walked closer and sat down next to him. Their shoulders were barely touching but Ryan could feel the other boy’s warmth radiating through his clothes. Ryan was always cold.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, picking up his phone and staring at it as if that would make the messages disappear. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Nothing, I just—”

 

“Ryan,” Brendon said, crouching down in front of him, putting one hand on Ryan’s knee. “There is something.” Ryan couldn’t help but look at him, and took in the other boy’s dark eyes, searching his. “Tell me.”

 

“It’s fine, let’s go back out, they’re going to wonder—”

 

Brendon shook his head, frowning. 

 

“Let them think whatever the hell they want. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

 

Ryan looked as his own hands again, the bitten fingernails and the silvery scar that travelled across two of his knuckles. He’d gotten that punching a wall at sixteen, when the very reason he was sitting on his bed right now had been particularly shitty. 

 

“It’s my dad,” Ryan breathed. “He’s dying. Has been for ages now, but I just got told that he’s in critical condition. I don’t—” He chuckled bitterly. “I don’t know what to do.” 

 

Brendon’s eyes widened. He stood up hastily and walked towards the door, one hand nervously in his hair. He turned back to look at Ryan.

 

“God, Ryan! Why are you just saying this now? Where is he? We have to— We have to go see him, there’s no way that we’ll just— God, fuck! Why didn’t you just _say_ something? Your dad is fucking _dying_ and I made you be here, why didn’t you tell?”

 

Ryan thought about the hours he spent hiding in his room, trying to avoid any kind of encounter with his father when the alcohol had taken its toll. He thought of the dog they used to have, the beagle that made him feel safer than a human ever had,thought of the scar on his hand. He stood up.

 

“I don’t want to see him. He used to beat me. Alcoholic.” He tried his best to keep his voice steady. It was New Year’s Eve, for fuck’s sake. No one cried on New Year’s Eve. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Brendon dropped his hand from his hair. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I just— I just feel so stupid, you know. I feel guilty and shitty but at the same time I couldn’t care less. I don’t know.” 

 

“It’s alright. It’s okay.” Brendon walked closer. “C’mere.” 

 

He pulled Ryan into a hug, arms wrapped around him tight. “It’s going to be alright, Ry. I promise.” Ryan buried his head in the crook of Brendon’s neck, breathing him in. He still smelled of summer like the shirt he had borrowed; he was warm against Ryan, one hand softly stroking his hair; Ryan clutched the back of Brendon’s shirt, holding on to him as if he was the only thing that could prevent him from breaking down. Resentment towards his father rose in his stomach again, for ruining everything that’d been going great. He’d been happy, genuinely happy, but it wasn’t to stay that way. Happiness was fleeting in his life. It always had been.

Brendon pulled back slightly, and after looking at Ryan for a few seconds, put his lips on his, gently, carefully. Ryan tensed up, feeling Brendon’s soft lips on his. This wasn’t at all how he’d imagined it’d be; he didn’t want Brendon’s pity, didn’t want this to be a consolation gift, a “I’m sorry your dad is dying” kiss. He pulled back and frowned at Brendon, who looked down at his hands, embarrassed. 

 

“I don’t know what that was,” he said, “I’m sorry.” He still wasn’t looking at Ryan and Ryan wished he would. Did he feel something? 

 

“I guess I just wanted to make you feel better,” Brendon added, and Ryan sighed, picking up his phone from the bed. 

 

“I’m okay,” he said, and headed towards the door. 

 

“Wait,” Brendon called out before he could reach the handle. “We’re— We’re good, right?” 

 

Ryan smiled weakly. 

 

“Yeah. We’re good.”

 

———

 

“Alright, guys,” Brendon said while picking up the plastic bag he had brought with him. Reaching in, he pulled out a bunch of tiny red boxes. “One for each.”Ryan squinted to try and see what those were, and soon realised that they were raisins. He opened his mouth to ask but Liz was ahead of him. 

 

“Why on earth would you bring raisins?”

 

He wiggled his eyebrows and handed out the boxes to everyone. Liz and Patrick were snuggled up on the couch, and Pete was sitting on the floor. Ryan was leaning against the closest wall, a beer in hand; he’d already had a few and was slightly tipsy. It was around 11PM and Brendon had looked at him worriedly for most of the evening, but now he had relaxed, and smiled slightly at Ryan as he handed him the raisins. Having one box left for himself, he walked back to the middle of the room and discarded the plastic bag on the floor. 

 

“So I read somewhere that there’s a country in Europe -I can’t remember which but I think it was Spain or Portugal- where they have this tradition of eating grapes at midnight on New Year’s Eve.” 

 

Patrick frowned. 

 

“Isn’t the tradition to kiss?” He said, one hand laced with Liz’s. 

 

Pete huffed.  “Europeans are fucking weird, man. Who knows.” 

 

Brendon cleared his throat. 

 

“So, as I was saying,” he went on, brandishing the little red box, “we’re going to eat twelve of those, one for each stroke of midnight.” 

 

Pete laughed, opened the little box and looked inside. Ryan set his bottle down and walked to the couch. He squeezed into the little space that was left between the couple and the armrest of the couch. He looked at Brendon, who had sat down next to Pete. They were talking in low voices, and Pete was sporting a frown.

 

“Wasn’t it grapes?” 

 

Brendon looked up at him, confusion in his eyes. 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“You said eating grapes, not raisins,” Ryan stated, his slightly hazy mind having picked up on it. He had never really liked grapes. 

 

“Oh,” Brendon replied, standing up and coming to sit on the armrest. “Yeah, you’re right,” he chuckled. “But I thought it’d be easier with raisins. Less easy to choke on.” 

 

Ryan froze, processing those words as Brendon made his way back to the middle of the room, taking his phone out.

 

“Guys, it’s going to be time, get your raisins ready.”

 

Ryan slowly opened the little red box, and let a few fruit spill onto his palm. 

 

“10, 9,” Brendon started, staring at his phone that he held in one hand and a few raisins in the other. Pete joined in, and soon all five of them were yelling numbers at the top of their lungs. At some point around 5, Pete started screaming other numbers randomly, screwing up all of their counting. They ended up all saying numbers at random, Patrick and Liz kissing while Ryan and Brendon poured raisins over them like rice would be thrown at newlyweds. 

 

“Happy New Year!” Pete yelled, probably minutes after the clock had struck twelve. Ryan looked at his friends, looked at Patrick and Liz locked in an embrace on his living room couch, at Pete that had started mumbling about cats and at Brendon, Brendon standing in the middle of the living room, his living room, Brendon laughing as he tried to retrieve a lost raisin from the inside of his shirt, Brendon that had kissed him earlier that night. Ryan smiled. 

 

2006 was going to be a good year. 


	14. We're Different, Tonight

It had been a sunny day. A bright day in the middle of January, and Ryan was standing in the cemetery, looking down at the tombstone that looked too much like the one he was going to be buried with. The letters etched into the stone only missed one line, one little mark that would’ve made it his, though he assumed he’d never have “Loving Father” carved on his tombstone. Not that the man lying in the coffin beneath the earth deserved that title.

 

——— 

Brendon was positively horrified when he learned that Ryan had never been to any kind of show before. It was the sad truth, though. He had never had the opportunity to, and he wouldn’t have known who to go with, anyway, even if he had really wanted to. And he hadn’t. 

 

“B-but you have no idea,” Brendon had said in a voice so loud and dramatic that half the cafeteria turned around to look at him. Ryan knew Brendon didn’t care, but he did. Tried to hide behind his hair; it didn’t work. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on, Jesus!” He’d shaken his head and sighed as if Ryan had just told him he didn’t know what a car was. “Do you even listen to music?”

 

Ryan was appalled. Of course he listened to music. He just didn’t really see the point in squeezing between sweaty strangers to hear overly loud versions of what you could enjoy perfectly through earphones. Brendon had a look of pity on his face. 

 

“God, you need to go to a show. I can’t believe you’ve never seen live music. Here, there’s this band that’s coming into town soon, you need to see this. They’re not that big yet, but they’re amazing,” he went on, fumbling in his back pockets. Suddenly, a folded flyer appeared in his hands and he handed it to Ryan. The boy chuckled.

 

“Do you just casually carry flyers around?” 

 

Brendon laughed a bit and made a vague gesture with his hand. “Nah, it’s just that there was this pile and I got one, that’s all. They’re probably my favourite band right now, so you should definitely come. I have good music taste.” 

 

“My best friend’s in this band — Hue To Hold, they’re called. I think they’re releasing their first album soon. I’ve heard the demos, pretty excited.”

 

Brendon smiled. “That’s awesome, man! And you’ve never seen them play either?”

 

Ryan shook his head.“They’re in L.A.” 

 

“Oh,” Brendon said, smile faltering for a second before reappearing, as bright as before. “Well, maybe I’ll check them out, see what your music taste’s worth.” He smirked and Ryan hit him playfully on the arm. 

 

He looked down at the flyer as they stood up to get out of the cafeteria. It was printed on pastel green paper, and on the very top were three words printed in black ink. Weary Of Time. Not bad for a band name, Ryan thought, and shoved the flyer into his jacket pocket. He’d look at it later. Maybe. He raised his head only to see that Brendon was staring at him, an expectant look in his eyes that Ryan didn’t understand, like he was searching for signs of recognition Ryan never gave. 

 

Brendon quickly shook his head, as if he had zoned out, and moved on to talking about something else after reminding Ryan that the show was at nine on that Friday night. Ryan nodded but didn’t really plan on going. The band looked cool and stuff, with its flyers and three-word names, but he doubted live music was for him. The comfort of his room was way nicer than a bunch of people he didn’t know on a Friday night. Friday nights were for movies and contemplation. 

 

———

 

Ryan was just about to turn on the TV when the bell rang. Muttering something not exactly polite, he got up from the sofa, regretfully abandoning the warm blanket he had wrapped himself in. Opening the door, he sighed. A smiley Brendon was behind it, wearing a black leather jacket that, Ryan couldn’t help but notice, fit him really well, and a white shirt underneath it. He was holding up two ticket-like things. Nope. Not happening. 

 

“Look—” Ryan started, but was cut off directly. 

 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Brendon shook his head. “No buts or looks or whatever you’re trying to say to get yourself out of the situation,” he paused. “Brendon Urie here,” —he gestured at himself— “gets you _into_ situations, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, opening his arms as if in front of a cheering crowd. Ryan sighed.

 

“I’m in pyjamas,” he tempted, but Brendon made a “tut” noise with his mouth and let himself in the flat; he really had to stop showing up when Ryan wasn’t fully dressed. Pete wasn’t home, probably getting drunk somewhere. It _was_ a Friday night. Brendon went straight to Ryan’s room, and Ryan followed like a sheep. He was wearing a t-shirt with some obscure brand on the chest and his boxers underneath. 

 

Oh. 

 

He was only wearing boxers and Brendon was in his room right this instant. 

 

_Don’t you fucking dare,_ Ryan warned himself before his mind went anywhere. _You’re friends._

 

He walked in his room only to find a pile of his clothes on the floor in front of the closet and the doors of said closet wide open, mirrors facing him. Ryan could see his reflection, but not Brendon. He pulled the t-shirt down a bit. 

 

“What are you doing?” He inquired, as if it wasn’t obvious enough.

 

“Just wondering if you had a Little Mermaid costume,” the other boy answered, throwing a t-shirt on the bed. “They’re pretty good for shows.” Ryan snorted. 

 

“I’m not gonna go, Brendon. I’m too tired and I don’t think I’ll like it—” Brendon poked his head out from behind the closet door. 

 

“You’re gonna like it. I swear. Or I’ll buy you an entire wardrobe filled with _acceptable_ clothing,” he said, holding out a vest and frowning at it. “Who even wears vests anymore?” Ryan felt offended. He loved that vest. Brendon dropped it on the floor. “Plus,” he went on, “it’s gonna give you energy. Shows are cool that way.”

 

“Well, so can coffee, and my kitchen is much closer than—” Ryan started as Brendon triumphantly held out a t-shirt that the other boy had never worn since he bought it. 

 

“This is _perfect_ ,” he said as he threw the piece of clothing to Ryan’s face. Ryan took it. 

It was a white t-shirt, but it looked like it was ridiculously small. He’d never fit into that, skinny or not.

 

“I’m not sure that—”

 

“Put it on!” Brendon urged, and Ryan didn’t know what to do with himself right then. Was he supposed to just take off his shirt? To being in nothing but his boxers in the same room as Brendon didn’t seem like a very good idea for his emotional stability, even if it was just for ten seconds. He picked up a pair of black jeans from his bed. 

 

“I need the toilet,” he declared in the steadiest voice he could, and stepped over the little pile of clothing that had formed at his feet to go towards the bathroom.Ryan heard Brendon mumble something that ended with “change here” and tried to ignore what he could have said. 

 

Taking his shirt off in the bathroom after locking the door, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was still just as skinny and his hair was still a mess, but his cheeks were flushed with a healthy shade of pink. He wasn’t sure why. Probably the warmth the blanket had provided. 

 

He put on the jeans first; at least he knew those fit him. The white shirt turned out to be so tight that Ryan felt like he had put a second skin on, not a layer of fabric. It was different from what he usually wore, but it was a good different, the kind that made you believe you could be another person living another life, just for a few hours. 

 

He walked back into his room, only to find Brendon standing in front of his desk. It took about five seconds for Ryan to realise what the other boy was doing. His notebook was opened there, where Ryan had left it a few hours earlier after writing in it. His heart clenched in his chest and he rushed forward, pushing Brendon out of the way and snatching the notebook from under his fingers. Brendon’s eyes went wide.

 

“I’m sorry, I—,” he started, hands folding in front of his chest. “I didn’t mean to—”. Ryan was desperately trying to remember what he’d written that afternoon. It hadn’t been about Brendon, right? His mind was completely blank but he somehow managed to get words out.

 

“Why did you read that? You can’t just go around my room looking at my stuff!” Ryan hollered, holding the notebook close. Brendon looked genuinely apologetic.

 

“You’re right, I’m sorry, I— I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what came over me, I’m so sorry,” he paused. Looked at his feet and then back up at Ryan. “I didn’t know you wrote.” Ryan felt heat creeping up his cheeks. 

 

“Let’s just go, alright,” he said, walking out of the room, notebook still in hand. There was no way he’d leave it lying around anymore, not with Brendon here. He grabbed his jacket and shoved the notebook inside the pocket, and put on a scarf. Given the temperature of the flat, he’d need it outside. 

 

The car ride to the bar Weary Of Time was playing at was uncomfortably silent, Brendon staring straight ahead, jaw set. Ryan wondered what he was thinking. How much he had seen. He shifted and looked outside, wiping away the condensation from the window. It was dark, and the street lights looked blurry behind the soaked glass pane.

 

“I really am sorry, you know,” Brendon said suddenly. “I feel terrible.” Ryan turned to look at him. Brendon’s eyes were still fixed on the road, the passing lights constantly making the shadows on his face change.

 

“It’s fine,” Ryan answered with a sigh, his hand going to the notebook, still in his pocket. He hadn’t looked at the entry he had written that day yet. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t about Brendon now. Hopefully he hadn’t seen his own name written in Ryan’s clumsy cursive. “You couldn’t have known.” 

 

“Are you mad?” 

 

Was he? Ryan thought about what would happen if Brendon _knew_. How things would change. So, yes, he was mad. But not at Brendon. Ryan let himself develop those feelings, had taken the risk. Taking it meant risking Brendon knowing, risking getting his heart shattered. He was the one to blame, only him. Brendon wasn’t involved in that inner struggle and didn’t deserve to have to deal with it. He didn’t need to know. Ryan breathed in. 

 

“No.” 

 

Even though they weren’t touching, he felt the other boy relax a bit. Brendon turned his head and gave him a small, hopeful smile before shifting his focus back to the road. 

 

A few minutes later, Brendon parked the car and opened the door. 

 

‘Let’s go, it’s nearly time,” he urged. “Wouldn’t wanna miss your first show, right?” There was an edge to his voice, as if this was _his_ first show, not Ryan’s. But then again, maybe he was just really empathic, or really excited for him to discover his favourite band. Understandable. Ryan nodded and got out of the car, suddenly wishing he’d worn more clothes. The wind was freezing. 

 

“C’mon,” Brendon said once more. He had his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest to keep himself warm, wind making his hair fall into his eyes. Ryan strode towards the entrance of the bar, where no one checked his ID. He didn’t have it with him anyway, hoping he’d get stopped at the entrance. Well, that plan had fallen apart pretty quickly. 

 

The inside of the bar wasn’t exactly loud, but it was lively. People in small groups were talking and laughing, and Ryan felt incredibly out of place. Was he supposed to socialise? Is this what a show was? He turned around to tell Brendon he wanted to go home (his plan B), but the other boy had grabbed his shoulders and guided him towards the back of the bar. There was a stage there, with two mics and a drum kit. One of the mic stands was slightly in front of the other, which was, Ryan guessed, for the lead singer. He wondered what the band members were like. He hadn’t even heard their music, so he couldn’t really picture anything else but three high-schoolers that were trying to start a band. But he was here and Brendon wasn’t going to let him leave; they sat down at a small table and Brendon went to get them drinks. More and more people gathered near the stage: it was nearly nine, and there was a group of girls standing nearby, giggling and talking about what Ryan assumed was the band. 

 

“But he’s so hot! I can’t believe we’re actually going to see him for real,” one of them said. She had curly blonde hair with aquamarine tips, but Ryan couldn’t see her face. He was sure she was pretty. 

 

“I prefer Kenny though,” another answered. “He’s adorable and his voice is beautiful and I just—” Yup. Definitely the band. 

 

“Here,” a voice said, and Ryan jumped a bit in surprise, rousing from his eavesdropping state. Brendon was back and setting two drinks on the table; he glanced at the group of girls and quickly turned his face away from them. Ryan chuckled.

 

“An ex-girlfriend you just spotted?” he said laughingly, taking a sip of his drink. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure they’re all here for the band.” Brendon smiled nervously and wiped his hands on his jeans. Ryan indicated the chair next to him with a jerk of his head. 

 

“Sit down,” he said; it felt weird having Brendon stand taller than him. The other boy shook his head and pointed towards a glowing sign. 

 

“I need the bathroom,” he answered, and started in the direction he showed without waiting for an answer. Ryan sighed and took another sip of his drink, eyes scanning the room. 

 

Aquamarine Hair looked his way, and he knew he had been right. She really was pretty, with an almond-shaped face and laughing eyes. She smiled at him slightly and went back to talking to the girl next to her, not without casting a glance his way from time to time. Ryan caught himself hoping she wasn’t Brendon’s ex. That’d be awkward.

 

Suddenly, the lights dimmed and the small group of girls instantly rushed forward, towards the stage. A brown-haired guy walked on, carrying a guitar, and the crowd cheered. He waved at them and smiled brightly, walking to stand in front of one of the mics. Ryan realised there must’ve been at least three hundred people here; he hadn’t known the room was that big. There was another wave of clapping and yelling when another guy appeared, drumsticks in hand. He had wavy hair that looked black in the light and was wearing a t-shirt of the same colour. He sat down behind the drums and Ryan wondered if Spencer looked like this as well when he played with his band, nervous and excited at the same time. He looked around, but Brendon was nowhere in sight. Ryan’s guts twisted, a rush of anxiety coming over him; he was alone in this bar he didn’t know, surrounded by strangers. He inhaled deeply and kept on searching the room for the black leather jacket over the white shirt. It wasn’t possible for Brendon to take that long, Ryan thought. Did he get lost?

 

The crowd cheered again, even louder this time. A voice echoed in the room.

 

“Hello, Las Vegas!”

 

Ryan’s head whipped around to stare at the stage. 

 

Well, at least now he knew where Brendon was.


	15. Human Nature

Brendon had a sheepish look on his face as he approached Ryan, still drenched in sweat from being onstage. Ryan wondered why for a whole second before remembering that he’d been tricked into coming to this show. More specifically, Brendon’s band’s show. Weary of Time, as the dark haired boy had reminded the crowd after their last song. 

 

“We’re Weary of Time, thank you and good night!” Ryan could still hear his voice, slightly hoarse from the singing, echoing in the room and bouncing off the walls, thanking them for coming out, though most people were probably there by pure chance. It was a Friday night after all. 

 

But there was no space in his brain for him to think about that right now. All he could see was Brendon, his dark hair pasted to his forehead and his eyes bright despite the dimness of the bar. His lips were forming a shy smile, almost questioning, waiting for Ryan’s verdict. There were no more suggestive smirks or provocative smiles like the ones he’d thrown to the crowd in bouquets; just that simple expression, hopeful yet unsure. Ryan’s heart warmed. Brendon cared about what he thought. It mattered to him. 

 

“Hey,” Ryan said, not sure what he was supposed to say. It was great? I loved it? Something that’d make it sound casual, quick. 

 

“You were right, I guess,”he finally muttered, looking down at his hands. “This new band _is_ pretty amazing.” He looked up at Brendon only to see him break into a huge grin, a mix of relief and happiness and gladness. He couldn’t help but smile a bit himself. Brendon looked so young right then, despite all the sexual tension he’d managed to create in the room by his sole presence on stage. Ryan had felt that tension a bit more than he would’ve liked to. They’d been in public, Jesus Christ. 

 

“Told you,” Brendon shot back, and pulled Ryan into a hug before the other boy could realise what was going on. He smelled of sweat, but Ryan didn’t mind, wrapping his arms around the other boy’s middle, feeling the warmth radiating through their clothes, seeping into Ryan’s bones. The droning of conversations around them faded as Ryan grew conscious of Brendon’s fingers on the back of his neck.

 

“It was great, Bren,” he finally whispered, and wasn’t sure whether Brendon had heard him, but the embrace tightened. Good. There was no valid reason to let go. 

 

———

 

“You’re good, you know.”

 

Ryan looked up from his mug and frowned at Brendon. The other boy finished his beer and set it on the kitchen counter. 

 

“Writing, I mean,” Brendon explained when he finally realised Ryan hadn’t understood. It _was_ late. “You’re good at writing.” 

 

They’d just gotten back from the venue: Brendon had to help pack up all their material and clean up until nearly everyone had left. Ryan had tried helping here and there, but he really wasn’t sure what he was doing, setting everything in the wrong places; the owner of the bar had ended up gently telling him to fuck off. 

 

Ryan huffed. “No, I’m not. You’re just saying that cause I said I liked your band.” Brendon chuckled slightly and shook his head. 

 

“No, I’m saying that ‘cause I think you’re good.”

 

“You don’t need to mock me, you know,” Ryan said, making sure that the joke was clear in his tone. He looked at Brendon’s face, searching for the flicker of mischief or even the teasing that must’ve been appearing somewhere, looking for the dimple his smirk would reveal, but it was nowhere in sight, not even a smile decorating his lips. His eyes reflected the cheap ceiling light but they were impossible to read. He shook his head and huffed, moving away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

 

“No, Ry,” he said, the disbelief suddenly clear in his tone. He didn’t understand why Ryan thought he was teasing him.

 

“I wasn’t—” He took a step forward, one hand in mid-air, as if searching for his words. “I wasn’t mocking you. Your writing’s good. You’re good. I don’t know why you’d think otherwise, do you even read what you write?” 

 

Ryan pressed his hands around the circumference of the mug, the porcelain burning his palms and fingers. He brought his lips to the rim but didn’t tilt it, let his eyes wander around the kitchen instead, not lingering on Brendon’s form in the middle of the room. It seemed like he was genuinely waiting for an answer, arms crossed in front of his chest. But Ryan had no answer. He did read it again, but it was never good, the words ungracefully stretching on the page like stains, never quite letting Ryan capture the whole of his feelings.

 

When Brendon finally understood that Ryan gave no sign of wanting to reply, he sighed and went back to leaning against the wall on the other side of the room, as if it’d been calling him. Ryan took a small sip, the coffee slightly burning his lips. He didn’t exactly need the energy, but it was nice.

 

“Would you want to write for us?” 

 

It took Ryan a few seconds to realise what Brendon was talking about. 

 

He wanted him to write for the band, to write words for Brendon to sing to crowds. His words, the innermost bits of his mind. He looked up and took in Brendon’s hopeful eyes and the small smile that had appeared on his face. He meant it. Ryan’s guts twisted, telling him to accept, but there was no way he’d let Brendon anywhere near his words again; they were made to be written down and to stay on the paper, not to be spoken aloud, and Brendon couldn’t know what was going on in his mind. 

 

“I don’t think— I don’t think that I can, Bren,” Ryan started, but Brendon waved his words away, 

 

“Let’s discuss this another time, alright? I’m tired,” he yawned, and started towards the living room. Ryan set his mug down and followed him, wondering what had suddenly changed his mind about convincing him to write. Hopefully he’d forget. 

 

Brendon was sitting down on the couch, the TV remote in hand. 

“ _5th Element_ ’s on,” he said, setting the remote down. “Wanna watch?” 

 

Ryan hadn’t ever seen it; he made his way to the couch and sat down next to Brendon, careful to leave a reasonable amount of space between them. 

 

As Bruce Willis struggled with his taxi and an orange-haired woman, Ryan felt the weight of Brendon’s head on his shoulder. He had gotten a cushion at some point and was now hugging it, leaning slightly into Ryan. Ryan wondered how it was possible for one to be so energetic on stage and look so small just hours later. He didn’t move, afraid that if he did, Brendon would move away. He didn’t want him to move away, conscious of the closeness and the warmth that Brendon always seemed to radiate. He had taken a shower as soon as they’d gotten back to Ryan’s studio and now he smelled of Ryan’s shampoo. It was slightly odd, this scent on Brendon and not the now-familiar summery smell, but Ryan liked it. Brendon smelled like him. 

 

Brendon was deep asleep when the movie ended, and the caffeine in Ryan’s body wouldn’t let him doze off. He stayed still, listening to the other boy’s regular breathing and asking himself how it ended up like this, with the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen asleep right next to him. Brendon mumbled something in his sleep and Ryan smiled, carefully resting his head on top of his. He drifted off to sleep soon after, not thinking about tomorrow. 

 

 


	16. Tell Me Truly

Brendon slammed the car door shut. The house in front of them was white with a dark red roof; a hurricane lamp was set on a little table under the porch, perfectly polished even though it was still way too cold to do anything outside after dark.

This was the drummer’s house: Brendon had half-dragged Ryan to come meet his bandmates, in an effort to convince him to write for them. It turned out that, the morning after falling asleep in front of the TV —and, more specifically, on Ryan’s shoulder—, he hadn’t forgotten about asking Ryan to be Weary of Time’s lyricist. At all.

“Fine,” he’d said after Ryan had refused in yet another way. He’d been running out of excuses, but it’d seemed that Brendon had run out of determination first. Oh how wrong he’d been.

“I’ll take you to meet my bandmates,” he’d said, his tone final, just as it’d been a few days earlier, when he had showed up at Ryan’s door to take him to his own show. “It might change your mind. They’re great guys.”

That wouldn’t change the fact that he had no wish to share his words with anyone, Ryan thought, but he finally agreed half-heartedly, knowing he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he didn’t go.

And there they were. Brendon had driven Ryan’s car, and Ryan didn’t know whether it was because he didn’t own a car himself or if it was to make sure that Ryan wouldn’t run away, keep the Chevy as hostage. Brendon shoved the car keys into his jeans’ back pocket as he walked towards the front door. Ryan suddenly realised that he didn’t know the name of either guys: he knew he’d heard one of them during the show, but he couldn’t remember what it was for the life of him. As he opened his mouth to ask Brendon, the other boy was already swinging the front door open and looked back at him, eyes telling him to follow.

Ryan stepped through the front door, and suddenly he could hear that drums resonated through the whole house as Brendon guided him through the corridors. Ryan had been expecting someone to welcome them, but it seemed that their host was too busy with his instrument to come open the door. It was easy to tell that Brendon knew the place: he navigated through the hallways and past the doors easily, almost absent-mindedly, as if this was his own house, and came to a stop as he reached a white door, the drumming seemingly seeping out of it. The sound was just like air: taking up as much space as was available, and Ryan could swear he was breathing it in, letting the rhythm course through his veins and that only the beat of the bass drum was making his heart pump blood to the rest of his body.

Brendon glanced at him and smiled before pushing the door open, as if he knew something Ryan didn’t. Behind the door was a garage: they’d gotten in from the back door, and not the main, wide garage door Ryan had seen when they arrived.

In the middle of the room was a drum kit: Ryan could tell that it wasn’t the best —Spencer had a better one— but the guy behind it was giving it just as much passion. Sweat was dripping down the side of his face, and his white t-shirt was clinging to his skin. His dark hair was pasted to his forehead and the cymbals seemed to be in constant motion: he’d hit them again each time before they could come to a stop.

“Hey!”

A brown haired guy suddenly appeared in front of them, a grin on his friendly face: he was the guitarist, and Ryan was pretty sure that he was the one whose name he couldn’t remember — he looked much shorter now that they were standing on the same ground, not separated by about a hundred screaming fangirls. Ryan smiled at him but kept his mouth shut; the guy was clearly focusing on Brendon anyway.

“Bren, there’s a problem with one of the amps, I need you to check it out,” he said, pointing to the far end of the garage, where, apparently, he’d come from. “Josh is too into practicing and I don’t have the heart to tell him to stop,” he added as Brendon glanced at their drummer, who still hadn’t noticed their arrival.

“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Brendon said, making his way to the back of the garage.

“That’s Ryan, by the way,” he yelled to cover the drumming, “our new lyricist.” The guitarist’s eyebrows shot up, and he suddenly seemed much more interested in Ryan than he’d been moments before. Ryan shifted awkwardly.

“Our new what?”

An unfamiliar voice made Ryan turn and realise that the drumming had stopped. The drummer —Josh, Ryan reminded himself— was sitting on his stool, drenched in sweat. He stood up, leaving the drumsticks on the snare.

“Lyricist,” the shorter man said, repeating his frontman’s words. Josh’s eyes lit up and a grin spread on his face as he made his way to them. He was slightly shorter than Ryan but would surely be able to crush him. Perks of being a drummer.

“Awesome! No more cheesy songs!” His eyes crinkled up in a way that made them almost disappear: his smile was more natural on his face than anyone Ryan had ever met.

“Hey! I heard that!” Brendon called back, his voice followed by a loud crash. Josh rolled his eyes but the grin didn’t leave his face. He extended a hand, then quickly wiped it on his jeans self consciously before offering it to Ryan again.

“I’m Josh,” he said, though Ryan already knew his name. “That’s Kenny, by the way.” The guitarist that now had a name had retrieved a drumstick and was happily tapping around on the drum kit, clearly not having a clue of how it really worked.

“Ryan,” he said, shaking Josh’s hand. “I’m not _really_ your lyricist, just to clarify,” he added apologetically. “I’m just here because —”

Why was he here?

 _Because Brendon asked,_ a little voice in his head said _, _and you’d do anything that boy asks_ . _

“Oh, I see,” Josh said, a knowing smile on his face that sent Ryan into a spiral of confusion.

Before Ryan could dwell on that sentence and overthink it five times per minute, Brendon reappeared in front of them, wiping his forehead, which was covered in a slight sheen of sweat.  

“Alright, guys,” he called out, making Kenny look up from the cymbal he’d been examining very closely. “Amp’s ready, let’s get on with it!”

Josh nodded in agreement and started towards his drums, retrieving the sticks from the guitarist, who was on his way to pick up his guitar. Brendon had already gotten his own, a light blue, nearly turquoise electric —Ryan knew nothing about guitars— and had plugged it in. Ryan sat down on a random box as Brendon nodded at Kenny, who started playing, hands flying over the frets. His playing was somehow different to Jon’s, Ryan noticed, but then again Jon had only ever played acoustic in front of him.

They hadn’t agreed on which song to play, but Josh joined in easily, the beat steadily backing Kenny’s guitar. Brendon was nodding to the rhythm, waiting for the right time to let his vocals kick in. A mic was set in front of him, and he glanced at Ryan then licked his lips before taking a breath.

The sound quality of their rehearsal space wasn’t exactly better than in the bar —Ryan was pretty sure that their equipment wasn’t the best either — but Brendon’s voice was suddenly everywhere.

It was different to Dallon’s, but Ryan couldn’t quite tell how. This was a song he hadn't heard before, and a sudden high note caught him by surprise; he had had his gaze fixed on Brendon, and was now wondering how someone could have such a voice, powerful and rough and gentle and everything that couldn’t possibly blend harmoniously together and yet did perfectly.

The song came to an end, and Brendon smiled slightly, just as he had at the end of the show. It was a mix of self satisfaction and relief that everything had gone well. He turned his gaze to Ryan, clearly expecting feedback.

“It’s great!” He said, and the smile on Brendon’s lips stretched into a grin.

“Have you listened to the lyrics, though,” Brendon said, laughing. “They’re absolute shit.” Ryan shook his head. He hadn’t been able to listen that closely: Brendon had been slightly distracting at times.

“I need you, Ry,” Brendon suddenly pleaded, smile disappearing. “Please.”

And Ryan wasn’t sure whether it was because of the slight high the music had gotten him in, or the look in Brendon’s eyes, but he nodded.

“Yeah, yes. Yeah, I’ll do it.”


	17. Lover's Block

In retrospect, Ryan had no idea why it had seemed such a good idea to accept Brendon’s offer: the pages of his notebook were desperately blank, and so was his mind. The teacher was droning on, not paying the slightest attention as to whether his students were listening or not. Ryan glanced at Patrick. He was taking notes, handwriting sloppy on the white paper. As if feeling his friend’s gaze, the blond boy turned to him.

“What’s wrong?” He whispered, though there really was no need to do so; Mr. Clark —no, Dr. Clark, as he always reminded them— really didn’t give a shit. His balding head was bobbing up and down almost comically as he talked about diseases that could infect the cardiovascular system.

“Writer’s block,” Ryan said, tapping the pencil against his temple. Patrick raised an eyebrow. Ryan never talked about writing with him, but then again, Ryan barely talked about writing to anyone. Apart from Jon. Jon was oh-so easy to talk to about anything at all.

He thought of the guy, and wondered what he was doing right now, down in LA. Whether he was hanging out with Spencer and Dallon and Joe, whether they were writing music together.

He let his hand wander on the page, his pencil tracing haphazard lines that somehow connected to become letters, then words. Sometimes they didn’t connect at all. He looked down, half-aware of what he’d written. Between the sketched lines and geometrical shapes, were two lines.

_broken stones that were my home_

_now pave my way to the unknown_

He snorted. And there was Josh, hoping for lines that wouldn’t be cheesy. Sorry to disappoint. He let the graphite run over the letters, again and again, as if it would make them sound better. He brought the pencil to his mouth and chewed on the end absent-mindedly, staring at a spot on the wall on the other end of the room. How did Dallon write?

He thought of the lyrics of the angry song, the one that Spencer needed to prevent from being called _Go Fuck Yourself,_ and wondered how they weren’t cheesy. Setting his pencil on the paper once again, he started writing the lyrics that weren’t his, half in boredom, half out of hope that they’d help him write his own.

_he’s got a knife behind his back_

_and it’s cert’nly not skill he lacks_

_you better get the hell away_

_before you catch sight of his face_

Or maybe they only seemed cheesy because they were his. He nudged Patrick, who was clearly trying to listen.

“What is it?” There was an edge to his voice and Ryan could tell he was slightly annoyed. He handed him the notebook anyway.

“Is this cheesy?”

He watched as Patrick read the words he’d written, eyes skipping on the page. These lines weren’t even anything important, but Ryan’s guts were firmly knotted as Patrick looked back up at him.

“A little bit, but it’s good.”

That didn’t do much to relax Ryan, but he thanked Patrick, who hastily turned back to his notes so that he didn’t miss any more of the precious information Dr. Clarke was giving.

There was no way he’d show Brendon this. It just wasn’t good enough.

———

**RYAN**

And, honestly, all that pops up in my mind when I stare at the spotless paper is him. His lips and his hair and his eyes, those big, brown eyes that begged me to write for them. But I can’t write about him. All I write these days is about him. Fucking idiot, falling for those eyes.

I set my pen down. What would happen if I did write about him? Would he realise?

———

Brendon handed the paper back to Ryan, chewing on his lower lip. His gaze was fixed downwards, away from the other boy as he picked up the guitar. They were in Pete and Ryan’s living room, Brendon having insisted on how it wasn’t possible to do anything at his place. He’d arrived with an old acoustic that was now familiarly in his lap.

“Yeah, that’d work. I think I can figure out a few chords. Got a melody.”

Ryan had expected more. Words of encouragement, a supportive smile, anything to tell him that what he wrote was good. But Brendon’s lips were pressed together, and it was hard to tell whether it was from concentration or frustration.

“If it’s not— if it’s not good enough, I can still work on it, you know,” he added hastily, but the only answer he got was the soft strumming of guitar strings. Brendon started humming quietly, whispering words now and then, trying to match them with the rhythm he was creating with his hands. His hair was slightly too long, falling over his eyes in dark strands.

Brendon sang under his breath, his voice soft.

_“She smiles when nothing’s alright”_

Hearing his own words in Brendon’s mouth was strange yet somehow the most natural thing in the world, his voice enveloping them, making them lose meaning in a way that Ryan would never have thought possible. He’d always thought lyrics were the most important part of a  song, but Brendon turned that around with a few notes and steel strings. Something wasn’t right, though.

“It’s not supposed to be sad, you know,” Ryan said, and Brendon looked up, as if he’d just been woken up from a dream. His eyes were unreadable, and he said nothing, his hands still on the guitar neck. “I know the lyrics might seem slightly melancholic, but I’d pictured a happier song, you know? More upbeat.” It was tough to explain what he meant. These lyrics were hopeful, looking forward to the future. Brendon made it sound beautiful, but hopeless. As if he’d given up.

Brendon set the guitar down and stood up, picking up his black jacket that was lying on the couch beside him.

“I should go,” he said, and Ryan said nothing. He didn’t know much about songwriting, but this session seemed awfully short. Brendon was upset.  

Brendon started packing up the instrument as Ryan stared at the paper that was still in his hands, the words on it taking a different meaning now that Brendon had sung them. It was like seeing them from another angle, like stumbling upon a familiar place from a completely different path.

Ryan stood up as Brendon made his way to the front door, opening it himself. It was still odd to see him there, after everything that they’d been through in the short while that they’d known each other. Maybe the door still had a dent in it from when Ryan had slammed it after Brendon.

“I hope you guys are happy,” Brendon said simply before closing the door after himself.


	18. If I Hadn’t Known You

Ryan pressed the play button on his phone, and Brendon’s voice filled his ears. This song was slow, without drums or electric guitar, just an acoustic. Ryan knew that this was one of the first Brendon had ever written by himself, and he remembered the night he’d seen Weary Of Time at that little bar. It wasn’t that long ago, and yet it felt like another life. For this song, Brendon had been alone onstage, and his voice was so beautiful that even the group of guys that had been talking and laughing loudly all the way through stopped to turn around and look at him. Ryan had felt a surge of pride right then, in the middle of a packed yet silent room, with Brendon’s voice flowing through his veins. 

 

Ryan closed his eyes and tried to repaint the picture, to match the words flooding into his ears to Brendon’s mouth singing them. 

Suddenly, as the Brendon in the earphones started singing the second verse, the words he was saying etched themselves into Ryan’s brain, and he understood. 

 

Ryan’s eyes flew open and he pushed himself up, tearing the earphones from his ears. He had made up his mind. _Brendon_ had made up his mind. It can’t end here, Ryan thought. Not like this. 

 

Scrambling out of bed, he snatched the first pair of shoes that was lying on the floor and walked out of his bedroom hastily. He had to go see Brendon, had to give this at least a shot. There was nothing to lose. 

 

Pete was in the entrance, looking like he’d just gotten back from work. He shot Ryan a questioning look to which he got no answer; Ryan was busy destroying the living room couch trying to find his car keys. 

 

“Where the hell did I p—“

 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Ryan turned around to see his keys dangling from Pete’s hand, and let out a relieved breath. God knows what would’ve happened if he’d lost the keys of the Chevy. 

 

“Yeah. Thanks, Pete,” he said, moving forward to retrieve them from his flatmate’s hand. “Where the fuck where they? I keep losing them,” he added, shoving the keys into his pocket. 

 

“Right here,” Pete said irritably, pointing at a hook on the wall beside him. “Where keys are supposed to be. On the _key_ hook.” Ryan huffed in annoyance. Pete was painfully fussy about certain things like key hooks or closing kitchen cupboards properly. Things that Ryan deemed completely irrelevant. 

 

“Whatever.” 

 

Pete mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Idiot” as he took off his scarf, but Ryan couldn’t bring himself to care: fights like these happened too often and there were other things on his mind right now. 

 

Crossing the threshold and slamming the door shut behind him, Ryan rushed down the stairs to his car. Unlocking it, he got into the driver’s seat before remembering that he had no idea where Brendon lived. The other boy had never told him, and Ryan hadn’t been smart enough to ask. There was no way he’d call Brendon right now, either. He didn’t want to have this conversation on the phone, and Brendon probably didn't want to talk to him anyway. He wouldn’t have a choice once Ryan’s on his doorstep, but it seemed as if that wasn't going to happen. 

 

“Fuck!” he swore, letting his hand slam down on the steering wheel. This hadn’t been part of the plan. The plan was to drive straight to Brendon’s house, to tell him that there's no fucking girl in his life, and that he was the one that’s been haunting Ryan for, frankly, quite a while now. It seemed ridiculous that the little fact that Ryan had no idea _where_ Brendon was was keeping him from doing this. 

 

Maybe this was fate telling him he shouldn’t do it. Saying that Brendon doesn't feel the same way. Run, Ryan, run. Get out before you start something you’ll regret. 

 

Suddenly, Ryan remembered something. Or someone. A someone very passionate about hitting the shit out of his instrument. 

 

Josh. 

 

Ryan knew where Josh lived, and surely Josh knew about his friend’s place. Ryan put the key in the ignition and started up the car, newfound confidence flowing through him. It was time to make some more bad decisions. 

 

——— 

 

Ryan prayed that no one but Josh was home as he stared at the front door of the drummer’s house. It seemed much bigger than the time Brendon had been with him, and this time, no drumming was to be heard either. Ryan breathed in and pressed on the doorbell, hearing the sound echo through the house. There was no movement on the other side of the door, and Ryan wondered whether it was socially acceptable to ring twice. He really needed that address. 

 

As he had an internal debate about just that, he heard hurried steps approaching from the other side. The door swung open, and Josh appeared. Ryan let out the breath he’d been holding in fear of someone else opening the door. 

 

“Yes?” Josh said, and blinked twice as he realised that the guy standing in front of him wasn’t a total stranger. He broke into a grin. 

 

“Oh, hey, Ryan!” He said as a drop of blueish liquid ran down his bare chest. His hair looked suspiciously like a Smurf had been smashed on his head, and Ryan lifted a questioning eyebrow. Josh looked sheepish. 

 

“Yeah, sorry about this,” he said, gesturing to his hair. “Bren told me it’d be a good idea to dye it, for a change, but I don’t know how hair dye works.” Ryan stifled a laugh. 

 

“Clearly,” he said, and Josh hit him on the shoulder playfully with the hand that wasn't covered in blue. “Colour suits you, though,” Ryan added, and Josh looked down, clearly embarrassed. The dye was now running down his front at a regular pace, staining his jeans. 

 

“It was supposed to be green dye,” he said mournfully, attempting to wipe the blue off of his stomach, but only managing to spread it further. “I don’t know what happened. It’s not supposed to be this runny either. ” Ryan smiled. It didn’t really matter. 

 

“As long you as you tell everyone that this is exactly what you intended to do, you’ll just look badass,” he said, and Josh’s eyes crinkled up, a smile appearing on his face. There was a drop of dye running down his cheek, making it look like he was crying cartoon tears. 

 

“I hope little kids’ll think I’m cool,” he enthused, rubbing the side of his face energetically. The dye was probably itching. 

 

“You’re the drummer,” Ryan reminded him, “that makes you automatically three times cooler than us. At least.” 

 

Josh chuckled and leaned against the doorframe before seemingly remembering he was covered in blue dye. Hurriedly, he crouched down to examine the white paint for a few seconds before looking back at Ryan, relief in his eyes. 

 

“Thank God there’s no stain, or Mom would’ve killed me,” he sighed, standing back up.  

 

Ryan laughed and suddenly remembered what he was here for, and it wasn’t to see a failed green dyeing or an attempt to repaint Josh’s front door. 

 

“Do you know where Brendon lives?” 

 

Josh looked at him from beneath his soaked hair and nodded. 

 

“Yeah, it’s like two streets from here.” He pointed towards one end of the street. “Just turn left here and take the second one to your right,” he instructed. “It’s a grey house. I’d take you there but” —he looked down at his torso— “I’m not exactly able to do anything but drip right now, so I trust you to figure it out.” Ryan snorted. It was a miracle that there wasn’t a puddle of blue dye at his feet yet.  

 

“Awesome. Thanks, man.”

 

After exchanging a brief handshake with Josh, he walked back to the car and opened the door to get in. 

 

“See ya at rehearsal on Tuesday!” Josh called out, and Ryan swore internally. He’d forgotten about that. They’d agreed on rehearsing every Tuesday — and that meant songwriting too. Ryan had no lyrics to provide; he hadn’t written anything since that failed songwriting session with Brendon.

 

“Yeah, bye!” He called back, and got into the car. Left at the end of the street, second one on the right. That should be fine. 

 

It turned out that Josh could be trusted with his orientation skills. Or maybe he’d known Brendon since forever, and they’d played ball on his street when they were kids. Ryan tried to come up with what he’d tell Brendon; that he was the one that fucking song was about, that Ryan was miserable without him. That he’d been thinking about those dark eyes of his a lot lately. 

 

The house was grey indeed, but it looked sad and abandoned. There’s no way Bren lives someplace like this, Ryan thought, but it had to be the right place because the name under the doorbell said “B. URIE”. Ryan didn’t know Brendon’s last name, but it seemed right. He brought his finger to it and pressed down. 

 

He didn’t have to wait this time; a dog barked, and hurried steps came up to the door and it opened, a tired-looking Brendon behind it. He was wearing a black t-shirt over jeans that seemed slightly oversized, his feet were bare and light stubble covered his chin. 

 

“Ryan?” He stammered, clearly not expecting to see him here. The dog who’d barked was a small one, circling Brendon’s feet, though there was no way Ryan could tell what breed it was. He only knew beagles. 

 

“Hey,” Ryan said, and for a second he forgot what he’d come to do. Brendon frowned slightly, and Ryan realised that the other boy could literally slam the door in his face right that instant, but Brendon didn’t. In fact, Brendon didn’t move at all. 

 

“How did you know where I live?” He asked after a beat of silence. The dog had lied down at his feet, eyes fixed on Ryan. Ryan stuck his hands in his pockets uncomfortably. 

 

“Pete,” he lied. It didn’t feel right to tell him it was Josh; he didn’t want the drummer to get into any trouble with Brendon, while Pete probably couldn’t give any less shits. Brendon nodded in a _of-course-that-fucker-has_ way, then sighed and stepped aside, leaving space for Ryan to come through the door, but the taller boy waved a hand casually. 

 

“No, I’m not going to stay,” he heard himself say, and regretted it instantly. Brendon had just invited him _inside his home_ , and Ryan had refused. What a fucking idiot. 

 

“I just wanted to ask about _If I Hadn’t Known You_ ,” he blurted out. _If I Hadn’t Known You_ was the song Ryan had been listening to earlier that day, the soft acoustic song that Brendon had written a long time ago. Brendon looked confused as to why the hell Ryan was at his doorstep to talk to him about an old song of his. And he seemed.. _hurt_ , Ryan realised. “What’s it really about?” 

 

Brendon closed his eyes and frowned as if he had a sudden headache. 

 

“Look, can we talk about this another time?” He mumbled, bringing his hand to his forehead, and the dog at his feet sprang up. Ryan felt disappointment shoot through him. 

 

 _This is what you get,_ he thought, _when you don’t have the fucking guts to do what you want to do._  

 

Brendon had an apologetic look in his eyes as he closed the door between them, and Ryan turned to walk back to his car, cursing himself silently for his complete inability to do anything right. He was beginning to think that what had happened on New Year’s Eve was just Brendon being Brendon, wanting to help him take his mind off of things. Not that he’d ever wanted to know Ryan that way, to know the taste of him and the insides of his mind. Ryan huffed. This had been a mistake. Maybe this whole thing was just a string of mistakes that should be cut off. That way, Ryan would be free of both Brendon and having to let other people hear his innermost thoughts. Yeah, that was a good idea. Maybe he should quit. 

 

As that thought left his head, Ryan heard a door slam, followed by what sounded like bare feet on concrete. He turned around to see Brendon speeding towards him, his face resolute. 

 

“Ah, Bren,” Ryan started, “I just wanted to tell you that—” _I quit_ , he wanted to say, but the words must’ve gotten lost somewhere between his throat and his mouth because before he knew it, Brendon was kissing him, kissing him like no words could explain what he needed to say, like he’d thought about it for ages now but had never gotten the moment quite right. Kissing him like they weren’t on a front lawn on a cold February afternoon, with an overexcited puppy bouncing around their feet. Ryan’s fingertips weren’t freezing anymore by the time Brendon pulled away. His eyes were bright. 

 

“Me, too,” he whispered, and Ryan couldn’t remember what he had been about to say.


	19. Embers Never Fade

Brendon let out a small chuckle and Ryan craned his neck to try and catch a glimpse of the scribbles on the paper he’d just handed him. Only one lamp was lit and it bathed the small living room in an orange glow, making it look almost peaceful despite the stacks of books and papers and unidentified wrappings strewing the floor. They were sitting on the couch Patrick and Liz had been on during New Year’s, a foot apart. Ryan didn’t know _why_ they were a foot apart. It was already semi-official. That meant that only them had agreed on calling this —whatever it was — _something._ But it was enough.

 

“What is it?” he said worriedly. Maybe there was a mistake in there somewhere; Ryan’s usual philosophy was that spelling didn’t matter much, but now it seemed like it did, as if the eyes studying the words deserved to take in well-written words only. 

 

“Nothing,” Brendon said, eyes twinkling despite the dark rings underneath them. “I’m just not sure everyone will know what symbiosis mean, Ry,” he added, and Ryan hugged his knees and sighed, letting his head fall back onto the sofa. The clock on the wall displayed 11:30pm, and he was getting sleepy despite the fact that he’d gotten used to way later ever since he started to spend most evenings with Brendon. That boy must’ve been an owl in another life.

 

“But it’s the right word, and I wanted to—”

 

“You’re not in college anymore,” Brendon said softly and finally closed the distance between them, moving over to rest his head on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan felt an unwanted twinge of guilt as he let go of his legs and stretched them. He’d quit college a week earlier and had been trying not to think about it; now, his future was in the hands of fate. Or his own, it was tough to tell. 

 

“I never really liked the concept of symbiosis anyway,” he concluded, acutely aware of the sudden source of warmth by his side. It was still a brand new feeling, knowing that Brendon felt the same way. Or, at least, wanted the same things. They stayed like this for a few minutes, in silence, their breaths matching and the weight of Brendon’s head on Ryan’s shoulder. 

 

Suddenly, Brendon stood up from the couch and went to fiddle with the shitty stereo that Pete and Ryan owned. They almost never used it; Pete had very… peculiar music taste, so they usually stuck to headphones to avoid situations in which Ryan had to yell for Pete to shut the fuck up. Pete wasn’t home tonight, though, and Ryan agreed silently that some music would be nice right then: it could fill the silence that sometimes got slightly too heavy for it to be comfortable. 

 

When Brendon walked back to where Ryan was now half-lying, the small speakers were playing a song that Ryan didn’t know. He settled down again, his back against Ryan’s chest, and the older boy rounded Brendon’s shoulders with his arms. He could feel him breathing. 

 

“Hey,” he said softly against Brendon’s hair, suddenly remembering something that he should’ve told him days before. The instruments played in the background, triumphant, contrasting starkly with the relaxed and safe feeling that Ryan was bathing in, and yet it didn’t seem out of place.

 

Brendon hummed, his eyelids fluttering, hand coming to rest on Ryan’s. The light of the lamp made him look like he belonged in another realm. One where he’d be revered for his harmonious features.

 

“That song— the one you thought was for a girl,” Ryan went on, and the regular breaths stopped suddenly, Brendon’s shoulders tensing up slightly. He opened his eyes but didn’t look up at Ryan, choosing to look across the room instead, at the cheap copy of an abstract painting Pete had insisted on hanging up. It had never really made sense to Ryan, but then again maybe Pete saw some kind of answer to his problems in it. Maybe he saw a cat in it. Who knew; it was Pete. 

 

“We don’t have to talk about it now, Ry,” Brendon said quietly, but there was an edge to his tone that made it clear he _didn’t_ want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. 

 

“It’s about you,” Ryan said simply, before Brendon could stop him. “Figured it’d be a bit obvious to people if I used “he” instead.” Writing those lines, Ryan had been persuaded that Brendon would figure it out right away, but apparently not. Things always seem so obvious when they’re where they stem. The other boy let out a chuckle. 

 

“Of course,” he said, running a hand over his face, the unsuppressed relief clear in the words. “I’m such an idiot.”  His shoulders relaxed once again and his thumb started making circular motions on the back of Ryan’s hand, as if this was something they’d done for years. It felt safe.  

 

Ryan smiled. “Yeah, you are.” 

 

Silence fell over the both of them again as the vocals of the song kicked in. The singer’s voice seemed like an odd blend of glass shards and velvet, and yet belonged with the melody, made it its own. Brendon was singing softly along, and it seemed that the words found themselves more natural in his mouth than in the original vocalist’s. 

 

“What’s this song?” Ryan asked. He had to know, for memories’ sake. He wanted to remember this night, the peacefulness of the scene, wanted to put a name on this feeling, and perhaps this song could do just that.

 

“ _Tonight, Tonight_. Smashing Pumpkins,” Brendon said quickly between two lines. His thumb was still tracing circles, but they were now in rhythm with the music. Ryan smiled. “I’d love to play it sometime,” he added, and Ryan could picture him, standing centre, in front of the mic stand. He’d be so beautiful. He was sure that Josh would be able to handle the drums. But the lights, the screams, the “I love you”s, were all painted in Ryan’s head, a blinding blur that would somehow radiate happiness. He wanted to see Brendon onstage. Singing that song. What he’d just decided was to be their song. For as long as possible. 

 

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice. 

 

“What?”

 

“We’ll play it someday. I promise.” 

 

Brendon turned his head around to look at Ryan, his dark eyes suddenly animated by some new kind of excitement. It was almost as if Ryan could see the stage and the lights in his pupils; he knew exactly what Brendon was thinking. 

 

“That would be so fucking cool,” he whispered, and Ryan smiled again. “Thank you, Ry,” he said, craning his neck to bring their lips together. It was soft, and he could feel Brendon smiling against his mouth. Ryan’s guts all came together to form something that felt like a bunch of butterflies, trying to escape their cage. It was a good feeling. Brendon settled his head back on Ryan’s chest and Ryan could picture the smile on his face, knowing that his own expression mirrored his boyfriend’s. 

 

Boyfriend. 

 

That was a wild concept. He’d never called him that, much less had even thought of him in those terms. They hadn’t discussed it. But it seemed right. It felt right.


	20. Amplifier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright folks i'm really sorry this took me.. two months to update (but i've been writing other fics kdsjf) 
> 
> so i hope you enjoy this small chapter! i'm excited to introduce hue to hold soon - i've got some stuff prepared.
> 
> huetoholdofficial.tumblr.com

Ryan jolted awake to the sound of a door slamming and felt like he was being forced back into his body, taking a few seconds to remember where he was. His whole arm was numb and someone was standing over him. Ryan blinked several times before his vision finally adjusted, and recognised the build and hair of the intruder.

 

"Don't hesitate to go to your own room next time," Pete said, looking around in mild disgust as if to inspect whether there was any discarded underwear on the ground. Ryan looked with him; there was none, but then again discussing music was all they'd done the night before. 

 

"Morning," a sleepy voice cut in just as Ryan started saying something about the volume and discretion of Pete's past conquests. The weight lifted off of Ryan's arm as Brendon shifted to sit up, stretching in the process. "I'll be on my way soon, Petey," he added. "Don't worry." 

 

Pete frowned but said nothing, then turned to take his coat off. Ryan tried not to notice the dried streaks of white on his black shirt; God knew where Pete spent his nights these days.

 

Ryan looked at Brendon, finally processing what he’d said before. 

 

“You’re leaving?” He said, watching as Brendon stood up, checking his jean pockets. Brendon looked at him quizzically, stopping his searching for a second. What was he even searching for? 

 

“Well, yeah,” he said, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ve got shit to do. Promised Kenny we’d go shop for a new amp today.” 

 

Ryan nodded. Right. 

 

Kenny had destroyed one of their two amps by turning up the volume too loud, and it had made a last, desperate frying sound before dying completely. Josh had looked scandalised, but Brendon had only shrugged. 

 

“It was old,” he’d said. “We’ll go get a new one sometime.” 

 

Ryan just hadn’t known that “sometime” was today. 

 

“Fine,” he said, not knowing if Brendon was hearing him — he was looking beneath the couch now. “I need to pack anyway.” 

 

Brendon looked up, clearly surprised. Okay, so he had been listening. 

 

“Pack? For where?” 

 

“LA.”

 

Brendon sat down on the floor next to the couch, giving up his quest for whatever he had lost. His sense of humour, perhaps. He looked perplexed. 

 

“I didn’t know you were leaving,” he said, frowning. 

 

“It’s just for a few days,” Ryan said gently. “I need to meet up with Spencer.” 

 

Brendon’s face relaxed into an easy smile. “Oh. Is that the drummer?” 

 

Ryan chuckled. Brendon always seemed to refer to people by their instruments instead of their names. Pete had been baptised “the grumpy dude.” Perhaps a bad temper was considered an instrument in Brendon’s book. 

 

“Incidentally, he’s also my childhood friend. But yes, that’d be Spence.” 

 

Brendon hummed and stood up, keys dangling from one hand. So that was what he’d been looking for. 

 

“Alright then,” he said, shoving them into his pocket. “Seems like we all have shit to do, huh?” 

 

Ryan nodded. It was tough to leave Brendon behind so soon, but, like he’d said himself, it was only a few days. Plus, he was really curious about Hue To Hold, and more particularly about Dallon. He’d heard too much about the frontman not to be. 

 

He kept all that for himself, though. Brendon pulled on his jacket, walked to the door, and Ryan found himself wishing he’d kissed him. Maybe he didn’t want to be kissed anymore.

 

“I’ll see you this afternoon, alright?” Brendon said, opening the front door. Ryan fished his phone out of his pocket — so _that_ was what had been digging into his thigh all night — and checked the day. Tuesday. He nodded. 

 

“Yeah, see ya,” Ryan said, not knowing what to add. He looked at Brendon, who was now lingering by the door, clearly debating whether he should say something more. He seemed to make up his mind after a second.

 

“Cold water and baking soda will help, Pete!” Brendon yelled through the flat before flashing Ryan a bright smile and slamming the door shut, leaving Ryan completely clueless as to what had just happened. 

 

The door to Pete’s room creaked open and a shirtless Pete walked out, a lump of black fabric in one hand. 

 

“What’d he say?” 

 

“Uhh— Cold water and.. baking soda?” 

 

Pete looked down at what could only be his shirt doubtfully. There were still stains on it. Ryan looked away, as if staring at it for too long would conjure up images of what —or, more precisely, _who —_ Pete had been doing the night before. 

 

“This better work,” he mumbled, treading back to his room. That guy needed coffee, but Ryan had packing to do. 

 

Actually, he needed coffee too. 

 

He didn’t call Pete. 

 

 

***

 

The amp was humungous. 

 

“Are you sure this isn’t a monster truck in disguise?” Ryan asked, and Kenny let out a short laugh. Seriously. Ryan hadn’t seen many amps in his time, but this one just looked ridiculously out of proportion. It must’ve cost a fortune.

 

Brendon walked back in, three glasses of water somehow balanced in his hands: they’d all need water after rehearsal, that much Ryan knew. Brendon set them down on a cardboard box and walked up to where Ryan and Kenny were standing.

 

“How do you feel about our baby?” He said, arms akimbo. Ryan lifted an eyebrow. 

 

“Baby?”That amp was anything but a baby. 

 

Brendon smiled and patted the top of it as if it were a dog. A very big, very silent dog. For now. Ryan’s ears were already ringing at the thought of how loud Kenny’s guitar would be through that… monster.

 

“We got it for only $150!” Kenny said excitedly, and Ryan nodded, smiling. He had no idea what the usual price range for them was.

 

“Alright, let’s get on with it.” Brendon and Kenny went to pick up their guitars from their respective stands and Josh shifted on his stool, getting ready. 

 

The mics were on, and the only thing that still needed power was the monster-amp. Ryan wondered whether it’d make all the power go out once plugged in. 

 

“Guys, I still need power in my house,” Josh said, looking dubiously at the plug in Kenny’s hand, inches away from the power outlet. Good, Ryan wasn’t the only one worried about the safety levels of that amp. With a little bit of luck, it won’t explode.

 

“C’mon, it’s just an amp,” Brendon said, motioning for Kenny to plug it in, which he did.

 

The garage was suddenly plunged into darkness and someone swore loudly, followed by a deep sigh. 

 

“How am I gonna make lunch now?” 

**Author's Note:**

> please don't hesitate to leave a comment! it keeps my motivation at an acceptable level :')


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